THE  ]  [BRARY 


[HE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL IFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


(j 


v 


O~z^~ 


POEMS 


LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  F.   O.  C.  DARLRY. 


EDITED    BY   M.    OLIVER    DAVIDSON. 


NEW     YORK  : 

PUBLISHED    BY    HURD    AND    HOUGHTOX. 
lltbrrsttic  $3rrs"0, 

1871. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by 

M.  OLIVER  DAVIDSON, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED   AND    1'RINTEI)    I?  V 

H.  O.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

18 

MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES  :  — 

AN  ACROSTIC 43 

CHARITY ..44 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  QUEEN  CAROLINE      .        .    •    .        .        .        -45 

A  HERO'S  DUST       .  • 46 

THE  EVENING  SPIRIT 47 

To  SCIENCE 48 

PLEASURE 48 

THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD 49 

LINES,  WRITTEN  UNDER  THE  PROMISE  OF  REWARD        .        .        '  S° 

To  THE  MEMORY  OF  HENRY  KIRK  WHITE          .        .        .        .  51 

STILLING  THE  WAVES 51 

A  SONG  (IN  IMITATION  OF  THE  SCOTCH) 52 

EXIT  FROM  EGYPTIAN  BONDAGE 54 

THE  LAST  FLOWER  OF  THE  GARDEN 56 

ODE  TO  FANCY 57 

THE  BLUSH 58 

A  SONG 60 

ON  AN  ^EOLIAN  HARP 62 

THE  COQUETTE 63 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT 65 

REFLECTIONS  ON  CROSSING  LAKE  CHAMPLAIK   IN  THE  STEAMSHIP 

"PHOENIX" 67 

THE  STAR  OF  LIBERTY    .                                                        .        .  68 


1 66SJ 


11  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

ON  SOLITUDE 70 

THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SODOM  AND  GOMORRAH  .        .        .        .        71 

THE  WEE"  FLOWER  OF  THE  HEATHER 73 

ON  READING  A  FRAGMENT  CALLED  "  THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  FOREST"  74 
THE  PARTING  OF  DECOURCY  AND  WILHELMINE     .        .        .        -75 

AN  ADDRESS  TO  MY  MUSE 81 

THE  MERMAID 82 

ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  A  SISTER 83 

A  DREAM 84 

To  MY  SISTER 86 

CUPID'S  BOWER 88 

THE  FAMILY  TIMK-PIECE 90 

ON  THE  EXECUTION  OF  MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS    .        .        .        .92 

RUTH'S  ANSWER  TO  NAOMI 94 

DAVID  AND  JONATHAN 95 

THE  SICK-BED 96 

BYRON 97 

THE  BACHELOR         ....  98 

ON  THE  CREW  OF  A  VESSEL  WHO  WERE  FOUND  DEAD  AT  SEA        100 

WOMAN'S  LOVE '  .        .        .        •      102 

To  A  LADY  WHOSE  SINGING  RESEMBLED  THAT  OF  AN  ABSENT  SISTER  104 
ON  SEEING  A  PICTURE  OF  THE  BLESSED  VIRGIN  MARY,  PAINTED 

SEVERAL  CENTURIES  SINCE 106 

AMERICAN  POETRY 109 

HEADACHE no 

To  A  STAR in 

SONG  OF  VICTORY,  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GOLIATH     .        .        .        .112 

THE  INDIAN  CHIEF  AND  CONCONAY 113 

THE  MOTHER'S  LAMENT  FOR  HER  INFANT 116 

ON  THE  MOTTO  OF  A  SEAL 118 

SHAKESPEARE 119 

To  A  LADY  RECOVERING  FROM  SICKNESS 120 

THE  VISION 121 

ON  SEEING  AT  A  CONCERT  THE  PUBLIC  PERFORMANCE  OF  A  FEMALE 

DWARF 124 

ALONZO  AND  IMANEL 126 

To  MARGARET'S  EYE 128 

A  SONG 129 

TWILIGHT • 130 


CONTENTS.  ill 

PAGE 

THE  WHITE  MAID  OF  THE  ROCK 131 

HABAKKUK  in.  6. 133 

LOVE,  JOY,  AND  PLEASURE .134 

O  THAT  THE  EAGLE'S  WlNG  WERE  MINE 138 

THE  SMILE  OF  INNOCENCE 140 

To  MY  MOTHER 142 

SABRINA,  A  VOLCANIC  ISLAND,  WHICH  APPEARED  AND  DISAPPEARKD 

AMONG  THE  AZORES  IN  1 71 1 144 

THE  PROPHECY          .  145 

PROPHECY  II 147 

PROPHECY  III. 148 

FEATS  OF  DEATH 150 

AUCTION  EXTRAORDINARY       • 152 

THE  "GUARDIAN  ANGEL"         .        - 154 

To  THE  VERMONT  CADETS      .        .        .        ."  .        .        -156 

To  MY  FRIEND  AND  PATRON,  M K ,  ESQ 157 

MORNING 158 

To  A  FRIEND,  WHOM  i  HAVE  NOT  SEEN  SINCE  MY  CHILDHOOD    .   160 

MODESTY 161 

THE  YELLOW  FEVER 162 

RUINS  OF  PALMYRA          ....  ....       164 

THE  WIDE  WORLD  is  DREAR .        .166 

FAREWELL  TO  Miss  E.  B i6S 

DEATH 169 

A  VIEW  OF  DEATH 170 

ROB  ROY'S  REPLY  TO  FRANCIS  OSBALDISTONE         .        .        .        .172 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL  MRS. .        .        .  173 

To  MY  DEAR  MOTHER  IN  SICKNESS .175 

KINDAR  BURIAL  SERVICE  —  VERSIFIED 176 

THE  GRAVE 177 

THE  ARMY  OF  ISRAEL  AT  THE  FOOT  OF  MOUNT  SINAI      .        .       178 

THE  GARDEN  OF  GETHSEMANE .  180 

THE  TEMPEST  GOD 181 

To  A  DEPARTING  FRIEND 182 

MARITORNE;    OR,  THE  PIRATE  OF  MEXICO 183 

AMERICA 193 

LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  A  COUSTN •       196 

ON  SEEING  A  YOUNG  LADY  AT  HER  DEVOTIONS      ....  197 
To  A  YOUNG  LADY,  WHOSE  MOTHER  WAS  INSANE  FROM  HER  BIRTH    199 


iv  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  FEAR  OF  MADNESS 201 

MY  LAST  FAREWELL  TO  MY  HARP 202 

SPECIMENS  OF  PROSE  COMPOSITION:  — 

COLUMBUS 203 

ALPHONSO  IN  SEARCH  OF  LEARNING 206 

SENSIBILITY 212 

THE  HOLY  WRITINGS 213 

CHARITY 215 

REMARKS  ON  THE  IMMORALITY  OF  THE  STAGE     .        .        .        .217 

CONTEMPLATION  OF  THE  HEAVENS 219 

THE  ORIGIN  OF  CHIVALRY 221 

BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA.  MARIA  DAVIDSON       ....  223 

NOTES  TO  AMIR  KHAN 269 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PORTRAIT  OF  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON  —  Engraved  in  steel  by  A.  H. 
Ritchie. 

PORTRAIT  OF  L.  D.  DAVIDSON,  U.  S.  A.  —  Engraved  in  steel  by  A.  H. 
Ritchie 

FRONTISPIECES 

VIEW  OF  PLATTSBURG,  from   a  Photograph  ;    engraved  by  J.  S.  Hurley. 

VIGNETTE. 

TEN  ILLUSTRA  TIONS  A  CCOMPANYING  THE  POEMS,  FROM  DRA  W- 
IN'GS  BY  F.  O.  C.  DARLEY. 

AMIR  KHAN  —  Engraved  by  J.  A.  Bogert. 

FACING   PAGE 

"  O  speak,  Amreta !  but  one  word"  ....       5 

When  starting  with  a  sudden  blow, 

He  oped  a  portal  dark  and  low 7 

"  Mark  me !  "  he  cried  ;  "  thij  pensive  flower, 
Gathered  at  midnight's  magic  hour, 
Will  charm  each  passion  of  the  breast, 
And  calm  each  throbbing  nerve  to  rest  "          ...      8 

The  maiden  sunk  upon  his  breast, 

And  deep  and  lengthened  was  her  rest  !  16 

ClIiCOMlCO  — Engraved  by  J.  A.  Bogert. 

The  angel  of  mercy,  the  herald  of  grace 

Knelt  the  sorrowful  daughter  of  Hillis-ad-joe      .         .     22 

CHARITY  —  Engraved  by  J.  A.  Bogert. 

Though  I  to  feed  the  poor  my  goods  bestow    .  -44 


VI  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD  —  Engraved  by  J.  A.  Bogert. 

FACING    PAGE 

But  when  that  lamb  is  found,  what  joy  is  seen 

Depicted  on  the  careful  shepherd's  face       .         .         -49 

A  SONG  —  Engraved  by  J.  S.  Harley. 

Wha  is  it  that  caemeth  sae  blithe 

And  sae  swift        ........     52 

THE  FAMILY  TIME-PIECE  —  Engraved  by  J.  A.  Bogert. 

And  watched  thy  finger,  with  a  youthful  glee  .         .         .90 

FEATS  OF  DEATH  —  Engraved  by  J.  S.  Harley. 

I  paused  in  my  pathway,  for  beauty  was  there          .         -150 


INTRODUCTORY. 


"  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever  : 
Its  loveliness  increases  ;  it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness." 

IN  bringing  out  at  this  time  a  new  edition  of  the 
poems  of  one  of  the  sweetest  and  most  intellectual  spir 
its  that  this  country  ever  knew  ;  in  introducing  to  an 
entirely  new  generation  of  readers  the  writings  of  one 
who  for  forty-five  years  has  lain  beneath  the  lilies  and 
the  violets  in  a  quiet  country  church-yard  on  the  borders 
of  Lake  Champlain,  we  feel  that  we  are  performing  a 
worthy  act  which  cannot  but  be  fully  appreciated  and 
acknowledged. 

The  simple  fact  that  a  young  girl  of  less  than  seven 
teen  summers,  should  have  written  the  poems  contained 
in  this  volume,  was,  and  would  be  even  at  this  time,  some 
thing  remarkable,  especially  when  we  remember  that  in 
those  days  there  were  but  few  female  poets  in  the  land, 
and  none  who  could  have  laid  claim,  at  so  early  an  age,  to 
such  tender  and  thoughtful  effusions.  It  is  sad  to  think 
that  this  young  girl,  so  talented  and  so  filled  with  inspi 
ration  ;  who  seemed  to  be  imbued  with  the  very  spirit  and 


viii  INTRODUCTORY. 

essence  of  poesy,  and  who  gave  such  excellent  promise 
and  token  of  a  glorious  career,  should  have  so  early 
passed  away.  Had  she  lived  until  womanhood,  who 
can  tell  what  she  might  have  accomplished !  With 
out  being  a  great  poet,  she  yet  possessed  all  the  attri 
butes  of  one,  and  many  of  her  earliest  productions  con 
tained  evidences  of  poetic  power,  which  needed  only 
culture  and  proper  guidance — which,  had  her  health  and 
years  permitted,  she  would  have  received  —  to  have  made 
her  the  peeress  of  the  fairest  poets  of  the  land.  As  it  is, 
we  can  only  speak  of  her  as  a  child  —  a  wondrous  child, 
though  ;  sensitive  to  excess,  and  thoughtful  beyond  her 
years.  Precocious,  too,  though  not  through  study,  but 
by  nature  ;  she  seemed  intuitively  to  know  things  which 
puzzle  ofttimes  the  learned  ;  though  where  or  how  she 
gained  her  knowledge,  was  a  mystery  even  to  those 
by  whom  she  was  daily  surrounded,  —  her  parents,  her 
teachers,  and  her  friends. 

Her  productions  were  not,  as  one  might  think,  the 
result  entirely  of  laborious  work  ;  many  of  them  were 
born  on  the  inspiration  of  the  moment,  when  the  divine 
afflatus  was  full  upon  her  ;  and  yet  others  were  the  result 
of  careful  thought  and  study  ;  but  however  this,  was,  their 
composition  was  always  to  her  a  heartfelt  pleasure.  Other 
children  of  her  years  would  find  their  chief  enjoyment  in 
play  ;  but  she  was  never  happier  than  when  engaged  in 
composing  a  poem  which  was  as  much  a  recreation  to 
her  as  it  would  have  been  a  task  to  most  others. 

As  a  poet,  Lucretia  Davidson  possessed  a  depth  of 


INTRODUCTORY.  ix 

thought,  a  delicacy  of  expression,  a  tenderness  of  senti 
ment,  and  an  appreciation  of  melody  rarely  to  be  met. 
She  had  a  fine  fancy,  a  quick  imagination,  a  quiet  and 
unobtrusive  humor,  and  underlying  all  a  foundation  of 
thorough  and  unwavering  thoughtfulness.  Her  writings 
are  marked  by  grace,  ease,  and  refinement,  and  evince 
not  only  a  catholic  but  a  classical  taste.  Her  heart  as 
well  as  her  mind,  is  apparent  in  her  compositions ;  and 
soul,  as  well  as  intellect,  permeates  and  gives  character  to 
her  productions. 

But  the  genius  of  Lucretia  Davidson  has  been  ac 
knowledged  by  writers  greatly  distinguished  in  literature, 
not  only  in  this  country  but  in  England.  Robert 
Southey,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  critics  and  accom 
plished  poets,  wrote  in  praise  of  her  productions  years 
ago,  in  the  "  London  Quarterly  Review."  With  a  full 
ness  of  expression,  creditable  to  his  heart  as  well  as  to 
his  understanding,  he  said  :  "  In  these  poems  there  is 
enough  of  originality,  enough  of  aspiration,  enough  of 
conscious  energy,  enough  of  growing  power,  to  warrant 
any  expectations,  however  sanguine,  which  the  patrons 
and  the  friends  and  parents  of  the  deceased  could  have 
formed." 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  write  a  biography  of  Lucretia 
Davidson.  This  has,  as  will  be  seen  by  referring  to  the 
appendix  at  the  close  of  this  volume,  already  been  done 
so  fully  and  successfully,  by  a  distinguished  pen,  —  that 
of  Miss  Sedgwick,  —  as  to  leave  little  for  any  one  else  to 
do.  We  purpose,  therefore,  to  add  only  a  few  simple 


X  INTRODUCTORY. 

facts,  obtained  from  her  only  surviving  brother,  M.  O. 
Davidson,  Esq.,  of  Westchester  County,  in  relation  to 
other  members  of  the  Davidson  family —  her  mother 
and  a  brother,  both  now  deceased  —  who  possessed 
in  no  small  degree  the  divine  art  of  clothing  their 
thoughts  in  the  garb  of  poesy. 

Of  Mrs.  Davidson  we  need  only  say  that  she  was  a 
woman  of  elegant  culture  and  refinement,  gifted  with  a 
superior  mind,  and  possessing  great  beauty  of  face  and 
figure.  For  many  years  previous  to  her  death,  which 
occurred  in  1844,  she  had  been  in  delicate  health,  and 
was  at  times  a  confirmed  invalid.  Between  the  mother 
and  her  two  gifted  daughters  the  most  perfect  sympathy 
of  tastes,  feelings,  and  pursuits  existed.  Their  hearts 
and  minds  were  indissolubly  twined  together,  and  a 
more  beautiful  relationship  of  both  a  maternal  and  filial 
character  never  existed. 

It  was  to  Mrs.  Davidson  that  Mrs.  Caroline  Southey, 
the  wife  of  the  laureate,  addressed  the  following  touch 
ing  lines,  written  at  Greta  Hall,  Keswick,  Cumberland, 
England,  and  bearing  date  April  loth,  1842  :  — 

TO    THE    MOTHER    OF    LUCRETIA    AND    MARGARET 
DAVIDSON. 

O  lady,  greatly  favored,  greatly  tried  ! 
Was  ever  glory,  ever  grief  like  thine, 
Since  hers,  the  mother  of  the  Man  divine, 

The  perfect  One  —  the  Crowned  —  the  Crucified  ? 

Wonder  and  joy,  high  hopes  and  chastened  pride 


INTRO  D  UCTOR  Y.  XI 

Thrilled  thee  ;    intently  watching,  hour  by  hour, 

The  fast  unfolding  of  each  human  flower, 
In  hues  of  more  than  earthly  brilliance  dyed. 
And  then  —  the  blight,  the  fading,  the  first  fear, 

The  sickening  hope,  the  doom,  the  end  of  all  : 
Heart  withering,  if  indeed  all  ended  here. 

But  from  the  dust,  the  coffin,  and  the  pall, 
Mother  bereaved,  thy  tearful  eyes  upraise, 
Mother  of  angels,  join  their  songs  of  praise  ! 

As  we  have  before  said,  a  son  of  this  gifted  and  ac 
complished  woman  was  also  a  poet  and  one  of  no  slight 
ability.  For  several  years  previous  to  his  death,  he  con 
tributed  to  the  pages  of  the  "  Southern  Literary  Mes 
senger  "  and  other  periodicals  of  the  day.  To  him  we 
are  indebted  for  the  completion  of  a  poem,  "  The  Part 
ing  of  Decourcy  and  Wilhelmine,"  left  unfinished  by 
Lucretia  at  the  time  of  her  death,  and  found  by  her 
mother  among  her  manuscripts.  That  portion  of  it  — 
from  the  seventeenth  to  the  last  stanza  inclusive — men 
tioned  in  the  original  edition  of  the  poems  as  being 
furnished  by  another  hand,  is  from  the  pen  of  Lieutenant 
Davidson.  It  is  marked  by  greater  vigor,  and  displays 
a  fuller  acquaintance  with  the  subject  —  carrying  out, 
however,  the  same  idea  initiated  by  Lucretia  —  than  she, 
with  all  her  innate  knowledge  and  appreciation  of  the 
same,  could  have  hoped  to  have  given  to  it.  Indeed,  it 
breathes  in  every  line  a  soldierly  spirit. 

A  brief  sketch  of  this  brother  of  Lucretia,  with  a 
selection  from  his  writings,  will  not,  we  trust,  be  unin 
teresting  to  the  readers  of  this  volume. 


xu  INTRODUCTORY. 

Lieut.  L.  P.  Davidson,  U.  S.  A.,  was  born  in  1816,  at 
Plattsburg,  N.  Y.  He  was  educated  for  Middlebury  Col 
lege  under  the  care  of  the  Rev.  Canon  Townsend,  Rector 
of  the  parish  of  St.  George  and  St.  Thomas,  a  scholar  of 
rare  abilities,  who  is  still  living  at  Clarenceville,  Canada 
East.  Young  Davidson,  at  an  early  age,  became  partial 
to  classical  lore.  He  translated  and  versified  several  of 
the  books  of  Virgil,  and  filled  a  number  of  manuscript 
volumes  with  original  poems  and  translations  from  both 
Latin  and  Greek  poets. 

In  the  year  1831  he-  entered  Middlebury  College,  where 
he  remained  two  years,  until  1833,  when  he  was  trans 
ferred  to  the  United  States  Military  Academy  at  West 
Point,  appointed  at  large  by  General  Jackson,  through 
the  representations  of  the  late  General  Macomb,  to 
whom  his  talents  had  greatly  recommended  him.  He 
graduated  in  1837,  in  the  same  class  with  Sedgwick, 
Hooker,  Vogdes,  Benham,  and  other  officers  subse 
quently  greatly  distinguished  in  the  Mexican  war  and 
the  war  of  the  great  Rebellion.  On  the  formation  of  the 
ist  regiment  of  dragoons,  at  his  own  request,  he  was 
assigned  to  this  branch  of  the  service,  and  immediately 
entered  upon  active  duty  on  the  western  frontier. 

While  in  the  service  he  did  much  to  elevate  the  moral 
as  well  as  the  military  standing  of  the  soldier,  and, 
among  other  good  works,  advocated  the  establishment 
of  "  post  libraries,"  and  wrote  several  songs  of  a  stirring 
character,  in  praise  of  a  soldier's  life,  especially  such  a 
life  as  could  only  be  found  in  the  excitement  and  dangers 


2NTROD  UCTOR  Y.  xin 

incident  to  the  far  West.  These  songs  were,  and  some 
of  them  doubtless  still  are,  sung  about  the  camp-fires 
of  the  cavalry ;  while  others  were  for  the  recruiting 
service,  and  ofttimes  effectively  served  the  intended  pur 
pose,  inducing  many  a  brave  fellow  to  enlist  under  the 
flag  of  his  country.  A  favorite  one  was  called  "The 
Light  Dragoon."  It  was  dedicated  to  Lieut.  A.  R. 
Johnston,  and  published,  if  we  mistake  not,  by  the  old 
firm  of  Firth  and  Hall,  of  New  York,  in  1841.  Although 
the  dragoon  branch  of  the  service  has  been  abolished 
and  the  cavalry  substituted  in  its  stead,  this  song,  with 
its  dashing  chorus,  has  not  been  allowed  to  pass  away. 
It  read  as  follows  :  — 

THE    LIGHT     DRAGOON. 

I. 
Good  cheer,  my  steed, 

Let  thy  headlong  speed, 
Dash  the  dew  from  the  prairie  grass, 
Shrink  not,  my  horse, 
Let  the  hills  fall  back, 
As  the  ranks  of  our  squadrons  pass. 

Then  up,  gallant  steed,  the  wild  wind's  speed 

Is  but  slow  to  thy  headlong  flight, 
And  we'll  rein  up  soon,  and  the  light  dragoon, 
With  his  charger  will  sleep  to-night. 

II. 

At  the  fall  of  night, 
In  the  gray  twilight, 
When  I've  combed  thy  tangled  mane, 


xiv  INTRODUCTORY. 

'Neath  the  smile  of  the  moon, 
Then  the  light  dragoon 
Will  lie  down  by  his  steed  again. 
Then  UD,  gallant  steed,  etc. 

III. 

When  sleep  is  done, 
And  the  rising  sun 
Shall  have  burnished  thy  glossy  hair, 
To  horse  again, 
And  we'll  scour  the  plain, 
And  we'll  beat  up  the  red  man's  lair. 
Then  up,  gallant  steed,  etc. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  Lieut.  Davidson  should  have 
destroyed,  shortly  before  his  death,  nearly  his  entire 
collection  of  manuscript  poems  ;  for,  if  we  may  trust  the 
judgment  of  those  of  his  friends  who  had  read  them, 
many  possessed  more  than  a  common  degree  of  merit. 
From  a  few  which  escaped  the  flames,  we  select  one,  not 
so  much  for  the  poetic  skill  displayed  in  its  composition, 
as  for  the  interest  of  the  story  connected  with  it,  and 
which  serves  to  introduce  an  incident  in  the  life  of  its 
writer. 

Lieut.  Davidson  possessed  a  favorite  charger  named 
"  Chicago,"  which  had  carried  him  on  many  a  weary 
march,  and  through  many  a  dangerous  defile  in  the  In 
dian  country.  For  its  docility  and  almost  human  intel 
ligence,  it  was  fondly  loved  by  the  soldier,  who  regarded 
it  with  a  like  affection  that  the  Arab  of  the  desert  is 
said  to  have  for  his  steed. 


INTRODUCTORY.  xv 

In  one  of  the  wild  skirmishes  with  the  Indians,  "  Chi 
cago  "  was  killed  by  an  arrow,  and  in  falling  confined 
his  rider  to  the  ground.  The  savages  swept  down  to 
secure  the  tempting  scalp,  but  were  arrested  by  the  fall 
of  their  leader,  shot  by  a  sergeant,  also  dismounted,  who 
ran  to  the  assistance  of  his  officer,  and  delivered  his 
fire  over  the  dead  body  of  the  horse. 

The  Lieutenant,  mourning  the  loss  of  his  valued  steed 
and  companion,  after  the  fight,  to  prevent  him  from  be 
coming  food  for  the  wild  animals  of  the  prairie,  buried 
him  where  he  fell.  These  lines,  written  in  pencil  on  the 
back  of  a  blank  requisition  for  holsters,  bridle-bits,  etc., 
were  found,  after  Lieut.  Davidson's  death,  in  a  pocket 
of  his  waistcoat :  — 

EPITAPH    ON    MY    HORSE. 
And  thou  art  dead,  my  noble  steed  ! 

The  duties  of  a  friend  are  done  : 
Thou  wert  the  soldier's  friend,  indeed, 

And  nobly  has  thy  course  been  run. 
That  flashing  eye,  that  lofty  head, 
Are  dim,  and  spiritless,  and  dead, 

And  stiffened  are  thy  limbs  of  speed. 

O  !  if  the  bugle's  stirring  blast, 

With  war's  enlivening  influence  rife, 

Could  usher  back  the  moments  past, 
And  raise  the  slumbering  dead  to  life  : 

How  quickly  would'st  thou  prance  again, 

And  limbs,  and  nerves,  and  sinews  strain, 
To  taste  the  raptures  of  the  strife. 


XVI  INTRODUCTORY. 

But  round  thy  grave  the  western  storm, 
With  music  harsh,  and  sad,  and  drear, 

Will  whistle  o'er  thy  mouldering  form, 
And  howl  its  anthem  o'er  thy  bier. 

The  panther's  fangs  shall  harm  thee  not  — 

The  prairie  wolf  shall  pass  the  spot ; 
Too  noble  game  for  them  lies  here  ! 

Quite  different  in  its  character,  and  evidently  more 
carefully  written,  are  the  lines  entitled  "  Longings  for 
the  West,"  composed  a  few  months  before  his  death  ; 
but  not  published  in  the  "  Southern  Literary  Messenger  " 
(from  the  pages  of  which  we  take  them)  until  after  his 
decease,  namely,  in  the  number  for  February,  1843, 
where  they  are  prefaced  by  complimentary  remarks  from 
the  editor. 

LONGINGS    FOR    THE    WEST. 

0  !  that  the  poet's  mystic  power  were  mine, 

.    Harmonious  words  in  thrilling  verse  to  join  ; 
What  sweeter  music  than  to  strike  the  chords, 
To  paint  the  beauties  of  the  West  in  words, 
And  sing  in  praise  that  sweetest  spot  of  earth, 
Home  of  the  wild  and  free,  —  dear  Leavenworth. 
Be  still,  my  heart !  let  mem'ry's  touch  divine, 
Bring  back  past  joys  to  glad  this  soul,of  mine, 
And  spread  the  kindly  veil  o'er  doubt  and  pain. 

1  would  not  call  back  griefs  but  pleasure's  form  again. 
How  oft  I've  sat  in  melancholy  mood, 

Where  mad  Missouri  rolls  his  reckless  flood, 
To  watch  the  mighty  stream  with  wond'ring  eye, 


INTRODUCTORY.  xvii 

Born  of  a  mountain  spring  to  swell  the  sea, 

And  to  man's"  life  compare  the  aspiring  wave,  — 

"  Is  born,  is  great,"  then  thunders  to  the  grave. 

I  turn  my  eyes,  the  sun's  departing  beam 

Gilds  yonder  hill  with  more  than  earthly  gleam  ; 

It  glows  like  Sinai's  mount,  then  fades  to  gloom. 

Ambitious,  soaring  child,  it  typifies  thy  doom. 

Oft  when  the  morn  smiled  bright  o'er  frosty  ground, 

And  startling  horn  had  waked  the  slumbering  hound, 

I've  sprung  to  horse,  and  with  the  shouting  train, 

Chased  fox  and  wolf  o'er  hill  and  dale  and  plain, 

Till  tired  with  sport  I've  checked  my  headlong  steed, 

Where  some  bright  stream  winds  through  the  flow'ry  mead, 

And  thrown  me  down,  where  sunbeams  never  come, 

To  rest,  to  sleep,  perchance  to  dream  of  home, 

Or  watch  my  horse  with  eager  ear  and  eye, 

Start  at  the  hounds'  deep  bay,  and  hunters'  distant  cry : 

Days,  weeks  and  months,  I've  coursed  the  prairie's  plain, 

Garden  of  God  !  the  red  man's  rich  domain  — 

Oft  chilled  by  cold,  or  scorched  by  summer's  sun, 

From  morn  till  night,  till  many  a  march  was  done, 

Then  laid  me  down  in  some  wild  Indian's  camp, 

The  earth  my  resting-place,  cold,  drear,  and  damp, 

To  watch  the  stars — to  mark  the  sullen  owl, 

To  catch  the  cadence  of  the  wolf's  sad  howl, 

Or  list  the  tales  of  scout  and  foray  far, 

Of  skulking  Pawnee  band,  or  murderous  Delaware,  — • 

O  !  could  I  catch  that  martial  strain  again, 

The  band's  wild  music  thrilling  through  each  vein, 

While  deep-mouthed  trumpets  rich  alarums  pour  ; 

'Twere  worth  a  life  to  hear  those  sounds  once  more. 


xviii  INTROD  UC  TOR  Y. 

O  !  could  I  see  one  moment,  scan  again 

The  bright  parade,  the  soldiers'  glittering  train, 

Watch  every  movement,  mark  with  rapture's  eye, 

Each  marshalled  squadron  as  its  ranks  pass  by, 

And  if  at  speed  the  mimic  field  they  scour, 

To  join  the  rushing  ranks,  and  shout  the  charge  once  more  ! 

Spirit  of  memory,  gentler  pictures  bring, 

And  teach  my  Muse  of  social  joys  to  sing  : 

Of  winter  evenings,  long  from  close  of  day, 

With  comrades  passed  in  converse  grave  and  gay, 

While  tales  of  daring,  wear  the  lengthened  night, 

Of  border  warfare,  or  of  Indian  fight : 

Teach  me  to  sing  the  glad  and  social  dance, 

Where  waltzers  whirl  and  bright  eyes  witching  glance, 

While  friends  in  cities  mourn  our  hapless  lot, 

As  banished  exiles  here,  sad,  desolate,  forgot. 

After  five  years'  active  service  on  the  plains,  during 
which  time  he  was  exposed  to  many  dangers  and  hard 
ships,  his  health  began  to  fail  him,  and  he  was  obliged 
to  ask  a  furlough.  His  native  air,  however,  and  the 
quietude  of  home-life  failed  to  restore  to  him  his  fading 
health  ;  and  hoping  to  find  abroad  what  he  could  not  in 
this  country,  he  visited  Europe,  explored  Greece,  where 
were  laid  the  scenes  of  his  favorite  poets,  and  also  travelled 
in  Malta  and  Syria,  returning  through  Italy  and  France. 
But  all  to  no  purpose  ;  and,  with  feebler  steps  and  a  more 
wasted  frame  than  when  he  bade  farewell  to  home  and 
friends,  he  came  back  only  to  die.  His  death  took  place 


INTRODUCTORY.  xix 

in   June,  1842,  and  his   remains  were   interred   in   the 
burial-ground  at  Saratoga. 

The  following  lines,  slightly  varied  from  a  stanza  of 
the  original  poem  —  "  The  Mother's  Lament"  —  written 
by  Lucretia,  are  inscribed  on  his  tombstone  :  — 

"  Calmly  he  rests  on  a  bosom  far  colder 

Than  that  which  once  pillowed  his  health -blushing  cheek  ; 
Calmly  he  rests  there,  to  silently  moulder, 
No  tear  to  disturb  him,  no  sigh  to  awake." 

Lieutenant  Davidson  was  possessed  of  a  high,  chivalric 
nature.  He  was  brave,  magnanimous,  and  full  of  charity. 
He  was  of  that  type  and  mould  of  character  of  which 
soldiers  are  made,  and  General  Scott  never  spoke  more 
truthfully  than  when,  on  hearing  of  his  death,  he  said : 
"  The  army  has  lost  one  of  its  brightest  ornaments." 
Had  he  lived,  he  would  doubtless  have  attained  high 
rank  in  the  army,  and  been  honored  as  a  patriot,  a 
soldier,  and  a  man. 

His  portrait,  engraved  on  steel,  graces  this  volume. 

In  addition  to  what  we  have  already  said  in  relation  to 
Lucretia  Davidson,  we  desire  to  quote  a  few  remarks 
written  by  Mrs.  Davidson,  in  her  dedication  to  Wash 
ington  Irving  of  a  former  edition  of  these  poems,  pub 
lished  in  1841,  detailing  the  circumstances  under  which 
several  of  the  poems  were  written. 

"  I  have  felt-,"  Mrs.  Davidson  wrote,  "much  diffidence 
in  presenting  these  manuscripts  to  the  public,  in  their 
present  imperfect  and  unfinished  state  ;  but  the  circum- 


xx  INTRODUCTORY. 

stances  under  which  many  of  them  were  written,  con 
demned,  and  partly  destroyed  by  herself,  as  if  unworthy 
to  hold  a  place  among  her  papers,  her  extreme  youth  and 
loveliness,  and  the  melancholy  fact  of  her  dying  before 
she  had  time  to  complete  others,  will,  I  trust,  make  them 
not  less  interesting  to  the  reader  of  taste  and  feeling. 

"  The  allegory  of  '  Alphonso  in  search  of  Learning,' 
was  written  at  the  age  of  eleven.  It  was  suggested  to 
her  infant  mind  by  seeing  a  cupola  erected  upon  the 
Plattsburg  Academy,  upon  which  was  painted  the  Tem 
ple  of  Science. 

"  The  poem  of  '  Chicomico  '  was  written  after  a  severe 
illness  which  confined  me  many  months  to  my  bed, 
during  which  time  Lucretia  made  a  resolution  that  if  I 
ever  should  recover,  she  would  give  up  her  '  scribbling,' 
as  she  called  it,  and  devote  herself  to  me  ;  at  my  earnest 
entreaty,  however,  she  resumed  her  pen,  and  the  first 
thing  she  produced  was  '  Chicomico,'  prefaced  by  the  fol 
lowing  lines :  — 

" '  I  had  thought  to  have  left  thee,  my  sweet  harp,  forever  ; 
To  have  touched  thy  dear  strings  again  —  never  —  O,  never. 
To  have  sprinkled  oblivion's  dark  waters  upon  thee, 
To  have  hung  thee  where  wild  winds  would  hover  around  thee  ; 
But  the  voice  of  affection  hath  called  forth  one  strain, 
Which,  when  sung,  I  will  leave  thee  to  silence  again.' 

'  "  This  beautiful  tribute  of  affection  has  ever  been  one 
of  the  most  cherished  relics  of  my  child,  and  I  deeply 
regret  that  the  irregular  and  unconnected  state  of  the 
manuscript  obliges  me  to  withhold  the  whole  of  the  first 
part. 


INTRODUCTORY.  xxi 

"  The  ballad  of  '  Decourcy  and  Wilhelmine  '  was  writ 
ten  for  a  weekly  paper,  which  she  issued  for  the  amuse 
ment   of   the   family.     It  was  dated  from  'The   Little 
Corner  of  the  World,'  edited  by  the  Story-Teller,  and 
dedicated  to   Mamma.     After  a  time  it  was  discontin 
ued,  and  to  my  extreme  regret  destroyed.     The   frag 
ment  inserted  in  the  collection,  is  one  of  the  very  few 
remnants  found  among  her  manuscripts  ;  the  first  six 
teen  verses  are  purely  original ;  the  sequel  was  supplied 
by  a  friend,  it  being  deemed  too  fine  to  be  rejected  for 
want  of  mere  filling  out.     Lucretia's  diffidence,  and  the 
apprehension   that    the   circumstances   might   transpire 
or  the  papers  be  read  by  some  friend  out  of  the  family, 
was,   I    believe,  the   sole   reason  why  she  discontinued 
and  destroyed  them.     This  mutilated  paper,  and  a  part 
of  '  Rodin  Hall,'  are  all  that  remain  of  the  '  Stoiy-Teller.' 
"  Her  sweetly  playful  disposition  is  strongly  manifested 
in  her  '  Petition  of  the  Old  Comb.'     She  had  retired  to 
her  room  with  her  books  and  pen,  where  she  had  spent 
several  days.     Feeling  a  desire  to  see  how  she  was  get 
ting  on,  I  went  to  her  room.     As  I  passed  through  the 
hall,  I  saw  a  sealed  letter  directed  to  me,  lying  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs ;  I  opened  it,  and  found  it  contained 
the 

"PETITION  OF  A  POOR  OLD  COMB." 

"  '  Dear  mistress,  I  am  old  and  poor, 

My  teeth  decayed  and  gone  ; 

O,  give  me  but  one  moment's  rest, 

For,  mark,  I'm  tott'ring  down. 


X  x  ii  IN  TROD  UCTOR  Y. 

"  '  Thy  raven  locks,  for  many  a  day, 

I've  bound  around  thy  brow  ; 
And  now  that  I  am  old  and  lame, 
I  prithee  let  me  go. 

"  '  Have  I  not,  many  a  weary  hour, 

Peep'd  o'er  thy  book  or  pen, 
And  seen  what  this  poor  mangled  form 
Will  ne'er  behold  again  ? 

" '  A  faithful  servant  I  have  been, 
•   But  ah  !  my  day  is  past ; 
And  all  my  hope,  and  all  my  wish, 
Is  liberty  at  last. 

"  '  Mark  but  the  glittering,  well-filled  shelf 

Where  my  companions  lie  ; 
Are  they  not  fairer  than  myself, 
And  younger  far  than  I  ? 

"  '  O  !  then  in  pity  hie  thee  there, 

Where  thousands  wait  thy  call, 
And  twine  one  in  thy  raven  hair, 
To  shroud  my  shameful  fall. 

"  '  My  days  are  hast'ning  to  their  close, 
Crack  !  crack  !  goes  every  tooth  ; 
A  thousand  pains,  a  thousand  woes, 
Remind  me  of  my  youth. 

"  '  Adieu  then  —  in  distress  I  die  — 
My  last  hold  fails  me  now  ; 


INTRODUCTORY.  xxiii 

Adieu,  and  may  thy  elf  locks  fly 
Forever  'round  thy  brow.' 

"  On  reading  it,  I  went  up-stairs,  and  found  her  en 
veloped  in  books  and  manuscripts.  Several  large  folios 
lay  open  on  the  table,  to  which  she  seemed  to  have  been 
referring ;  while  books,  papers,  and  scraps  of  poetry  were 
strewn  in  confusion  over  the  carpet.  Her  luxuriant 
hair  had  escaped  from  its  confinement,  and  hung  in  rich 
glossy  curls  upon  her  neck  and  shoulders,  while  the 
superannuated  comb  lay  at  her  feet.  As  I  hastily  en 
tered  the  room,  she  manifested  some  mortification,  that  I 
should  have  surprised  her  in  the  midst  of  so  much  con 
fusion,  and,  throwing  her  handkerchief  over  her  papers, 
laughingly  asked  what  I  thought  of  the  Petition  ?  I  ad 
vised  her  to  send  directly  to  the  '  well-filled  glittering 
shelf,'  as  I  had  no  desire  to  see  the  curse  denounced 
verified,  or  her 

"El flocks  fly 
Forever  'round  her  brow." 

"  '  Maritorne,  or  the  Pirate  of  Mexico,'  was  written  in 
Albany,  during  her  stay  at  the  Institution  of  Miss 
Gilbert,  at  a  time  when  she  was  ill,  in  the  brief  space  of 
three  weeks,  while  getting  daily  lessons  like  any  other 
school-girl.  During  that  period,  she  also  produced  sev 
eral  fugitive  pieces.  She  had  been  absent  from  home 
but  six  weeks  when  I  was  summoned  to  attend  her :  she 
had  then  been  confined  to  her  bed  three  weeks.  On  the 
morning  after  my  arrival,  she  desired  me  to  collect  the 


xxiv  INTRODUCTORY. 

scattered  sheets  of '  Maritorne/  and  expressed  much  sor 
row  when  she  found  that  some  were  missing.  She  told 
me,  with  tears,  that  she  feared  she  could  never  supply 
the  loss,  and  said,  '  Do,  mamma,  take  care  of  what  re 
mains  :  it  is  thus  far  the  best  thing  I  ever  wrote.' 

"  After  her  death,  in  her  portfolio,  which  her  nurse  told 
me  she  used  every  day,  sitting  in  bed,  supported  by  pil 
lows,  I  found  the  '  Last  Farewell  to  my  Harp,'  and  the 
'  Fear  of  Madness,'  both  written  in  a  feeble,  irregular 
hand,  and  evidently  under  a  state  of  strong  mental  ex 
citement.  By  their  side  lay  the  unfinished  head  of  a 
Madonna,  copied  from  a  painting  executed  several  cen 
turies  ago,  and  with  the  drawing  lay  also  the  unfinished 
poem  suggested  by  the  painting  :  — 

'  Roll  back,  thou  tide  of  time,  and  tell.' 

"  In  the  '  Last  Farewell  to  my  Harp,'  the  presentiment 
of  her  death,  if  I  may  so  term  it,  is  strongly  portrayed, 
mingled  with  the  feeling  of  presumption  which  she  often 
manifested  in  having  'dared  to  gaze 

*  Upon  the  lamp  which  never  can  expire, 
The  undying,  wild,  poetic  fire.' 

"  There  is  something  extremely  touching  in  the  last 
stanzas :  — 

'  And  here,  my  harp,  we  part  forever  ; 
I'll  waken  thee  again  — O  !  never  ; 
Silence  shall  chain  thee  cold  and  drear, 
And  thou  shalt  calmly  slumber  here  ! ' 

"  '  The  Fear  of  Madness.'  —  The  reader  will  find  his 
sympathies  all  awakened  upon  perusing  this  unfinished 


INTRODUCTORY.  x.vv 

fragment  from  the  pen  of  the  lovely  sufferer.  It  leaves 
too  painful  a  sensation  upon  the  mind  to  admit  a  com 
ment." 

It  only  remains  for  us  to  add  to  this  slight  sketch,  that 
the  author  of  this  volume  of  poems  died  in  1825,  just  a 
month  before  her  seventeenth  birthday.  The  following 
inscription  appears  on  a  modest  marble  monument 
erected  over  her  remains  in  the  family  burial-ground  at 
Plattsburg  :  — 

LUCRETIA  M.  DAVIDSON 

WAS  BORN  SEPT.   2J,  l8o8, 

AND 

DIED  AUGUST  27,  1825, 
AGED   1 6  YEARS   AND  II  MONTHS 

"  Here  innocence  and  beauty  lies,  whose  breath 

Was  snatched  by  early,  not  untimely  death."  —  POPE. 

On  another  side  of  the  stone  appear  these  beautiful 
lines  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Bryant :  — 

"  In  the  cold,  moist  earth  we  laid  her, 

When  the  forests  cast  the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely 
Should  have  a  life  so  brief; 

"  Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one, 

Like  that  young  friend  of  ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful, 

Should  perish  with  the  flowers." 

The  opposite  side  of  the  marble  bears  these  words  :  — 
"  This  monument  was  raised  as  a  testimony  of  affec 
tion  by  her  mourning  father." 


XXVI  INTROD  L'CTOR  Y. 

This  volume,  so  handsomely  gotten  up,  and  in  the 
illustration  of  which  the  pencil  of.  a  distinguished  artist 
has  been  employed,  is  a  tribute  of  affection  from  an  only 
surviving  brother  to  the  memory  of  a  beloved  sister. 

In  arranging  this  book  for  publication,  we  have 
brought  together,  as  far  as  practicable,  the  miscellaneous 
poems  in  the  order  of  the  years  in  which  they  were  writ 
ten  ;  the  first  one  being  dated  in  1819,  when  the  author 
was  in  her  eleventh  year.  It  should  be  understood  that 
the  date  of  each  year  is  prefixed  to  only  one  of  the 
poems  ;  and  all  those  that  follow  it,  until  the  next  date 
appears,  were  written  during  the  said  named  year. 

In  the  biographical  sketch  by  Miss  Sedgwick,  we  have 
omitted  a  few  paragraphs,  not  deemed  relevant,  at  this 
time,  to  the  complete  understanding  of  Lucretia's  life. 
We  have  also  incorporated  into  the  body  of  the  work 
several  poems  which  have  heretofore  appeared  only  in 
the  pages  of  the  biography. 

It  is  proper  here  to  state  that  a  new  edition  of  the 
poems  of  Margaret  Davidson,  the  younger  sister,  uniform 
with  this  volume,  is  in  preparation.  The  works  of  both 
of  these  sisters  have  long  been  out  of  print,  and  we  have 
little  doubt  that  these  editions  will  be  welcomed  by  many 
readers :  the  old,  who  knew  and  prized  the  poets  long 
ago,  and  the  new,  to  whom  their  poems  will  be  a  fresh 
and  beautiful  revelation.  To  them,  therefore,  we  joyfully 
submit  this  volume.  BARRY  GRAY. 

FORDHAM,  N.   Y.,  July  25,  1870. 


AMIR    KHAN. 


PART    I. 

BRIGHTLY  o'er  spire,  and  dome,  and  tower, 
The  pale  moon  shone  at  midnight  hour, 
While  all  beneath  her  smile  of  light 
Was  resting  there  in  calm  delight : 
Evening,  with  robe  of  stars,  appears, 
Bright  as  repentant  Peri's  tears, 
And  o'er  her  turban's  fleecy  fold 
Night's  crescent  streamed  with  rays  of  gold ; 
While  every  crystal  cloud  of  heaven 
Bowed  as  it  passed  the  queen  of  even. 

Beneath,  calm  Cashmere's  lovely  vale1 
Breathed  perfumes  to  the  sighing  gale  ; 
The  amaranth  and  tuberose, 
Convolvulus  in  deep  repose, 
Bent  to  each  breeze  which  swept  their  bed, 
Or  scarcely  kissed  the  dew,  and  fled  ; 
The  bulbul,  with  his  lay  of  love,2 
Sang,  'mid  the  stillness  of  the  grove  ; 
The  gulnare  blushed  a  deeper  hue,3 
And  trembling  shed  a  shower  of  dew, 
i 


AMIR  KHAN. 

Which  perfumed,  ere  it  kissed  the  ground, 
Each  zephyr's  pinion  hovering  round  ; 
The  lofty  plane-tree's  haughty  brow4 
Glittered  beneath  the  moon's  pale  glow ; 
And  wide  the  plantain's  arms  were  spread,5 
The  guardian  of  its  native  bed. 

Where  was  Amreta  at  this  hour  ? 
,  Say !   was  she  slumbering  in  her  bower  ? 
Or  gazing  on  this  scene  of  rest, 
Less  calm,  less  peaceful  than  her  breast  ? 
Or  was  she  resting  in  the  dream 
Of  brighter  days,  on  Fortune's  stream  ? 
Or  was  she  weeping  Friendship  broken, 
Or  sighing  o'er  Love's  withered  token  ? 

No !   she  was  calmly  resting  there : 
Her  eye  ne'er  spoke  of  hope  nor  fear, 
But  'mid  the  blaze  of  splendor  round, 
Forever  bent  upon  the  ground, 
Their  long  dark  lashes  hid  from  view 
The  brilliant  glances  which  they  threw  ; 
Her  cheek  was  neither  pale  nor  red  ; 
The  rose,  upon  its  summer  bed, 
Could  never  boast  so  faint  a  hue  — 
So  faint,  and  yet  so  brilliant  too  ! 

Though  round  her  Cashmere's  incense  streamed ; 
Though  Persia's  gems  around  her  beamed  ; 
Though  diamonds  of  Golconda  shed 
Their  warmest  lustre  o'er  her  head  ; 


AMIR  KHAN. 

Though  music  lulled  each  fear  to  sleep, 

Or,  like  the  night-wind  o'er  the  deep, 

Just  waking  love  and  calm  delight, 

Kindling  Hope's  watch-fire  clear  and  bright  — 

For  her,  though  Cashmere's  roses  twine 

Together  round  the  parent  vine ; 

And  though  to  her,  as  Cashmere's  star, 

Knelt  the  once  haughty  Subahdar  ; 6 

Still,  still,  Amreta  gazed  unmoved, 

Nor  sighed,  nor  smiled,  nor  owned  she  loved ! 

But,  like  the  Parian  marble  there, 

So  bright,  so  exquisitely  fair, 

She  seemed  by  Nature  famed  to  bless, 

Rich  in  surpassing  loveliness. 

But  never  from  those  lips  of  red 

A  single  syllable  had  fled, 

Since  Amir  Khan  first  blessed  the  hour  7 

That  placed  Amreta  in  his  bower. 

Within  that  bower,  'mid  twining  roses, 

Upon  whose  leaves  the  breeze  reposes, 

She  sits  unmoved,  while  round  her  flow 

Strains  of  sweet  music,  sad  and  low ; 

Or  now,  in  softer  numbers  breathing, 

A  song  of  love  and  sorrow  wreathing, 

Such  strains  as  in  wild  sweetness  ran 

Through  the  sad  breast  of  Amir  Khan  ! 

He  loved,  —  and  O  !  he  loved  so  well 
That  sorrow  scarce  dared  break  the  spell  ; 
Though  oft  Suspicion  whispered  near 
One  vague,  one  sadly  boding  fear, 


AMIR  KHAN. 

A  fear  that  Heaven  in  wrath  had  made 
That  face  with  seraph-charms  arrayed, 
And  then  denied  in  mockery  there 
To  breathe  upon  a  face  so  fair ! 
Without  that  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 
Which  burns  unchanging,  still  the  same ; 
Without  that  bright  ethereal  charm  ; 
O !  what  were  beauty's  angel  form  ? 

The  breeze  as  it  sweeps  o'er  the  poisonous  flower, 

Dripping  with  night's  damp,  blistering  shower, 

Laden  with  woe,  disease,  and  death, 

Fading  youth's  bloom  with  its  passing  breath, 

Blighting  each  flower  of  various  hue, 

Ne'er  o'er  its  fated  victim  threw 

So  dark  a  shade,  a  cloud  so  drear, 

As  hovered  o'er  the  Subahdar. 

Cool  and  refreshing  sighs  the  breeze 

Through  the  long  walk  of  tzinnar-trees,8 

And  cool  upon  the  water's  breast 

The  pale  moon  rocks  herself  to  rest, — 

Yes  !  calmer,  brighter,  cooler  far 

Than  the  fevered  brow  of  the  Subahdar ! 

Amreta  was  fair  as  the  morning  beam, 
As  it  glides  o'er  the  wave  of  the  Wuller's  stream,9 
But  O !  she  was  cold  as  the  marble  floor 
That  glitters  beneath  the  nightly  shower. 

Where  was  that  eye  which  none  could  scan, 
Which  once  belonged  to  Amir  Khan  ? 


AMIR 

Where  was  that  voice  that  mockedt  the  storm  ? 
Where  was  that  tall,  majestic  form? 
That  eye  was  turned  in  love  and  woe 
Upon  Amreta's  changeless  brow ; 
That  haughty  form  was  bending  low : 
That  voice  was  uttering  vow  on  vow, 
Beneath  the  lofty  plane-tree's  shade, 
Before  that  cold  Circassian  maid  ! 

"  O  speak,  Amreta  !  but  one  word  ! 
Let  one  soft  sigh  confess  I'm  heard ! 
Those  eyes  (than  those  of  yon  gazelle 
More  bright)  a  tale  of  love  might  tell ! 
Then  speak,  Amreta !  raise  thine  eye, 
Blush,  smile,  or  answer  with  a  sigh." 

But  'twas  in  vain.:    no  sigh,  no  word 
Told  that  his  humble  suit  was  heard  ; 
Veiled  'neath  their  silken  lashes  there, 
Her  dark  eyes  glanced  no  answered  prayer  ; 
Upon  her  cheek  no  blush  was  straying, 
Around  her  lip  no  smile  was  playing  ; 
And  calm  despair  reigned  darkly  now 
O'er  Amir  Khan's  deep-clouded  brow. 

What  pity  that  so  fair  a  form 

Should  want  a  heart  with  feeling  warm  ! 

What  pity  that  an  eye  so  bright 

Should  beam  o'er  Reason's  clouded  night ! 

And  like  a  star  on  Mahmoud's  wave,10 

Should  glitter  o'er  a  dreary  grave : 


AMIR  KHAN. 

A  dark  abyss  —  a  sunless  day, 
An  endless  night  without  one  ray. 

'Twas  at  that  day,  that  silent  hour, 
When  the  tall  poppy  sheds  its  shower, 
When  all  on  earth,  and  all  on  high 
Seemed  breathing  slumber's  sweetest  sigh  ; 
At  that  calm  hour  when  Peris  love 
To  gaze  upon  the  heaven  above, 
Whose  portals,  bright  with  many  a  gem, 
Are  closed  —  forever  closed  on  them  ; 
'Twas  at  this  silent,  solemn  hour, 
That,  gliding  from  his  summer  bower, 
The  Subahdar  with  noiseless  step 
Steals  like  the  night-breeze  o'er  the  deep. 

Where  glides  the  haughty  Subahdar? 
Onward  he  glides  to  where  afar 
Proud  Hirney-Purvet  rears  his  head  u 
High  above  Cashmere's  blooming  bed, 
And  twines  his  turban's  fleecy  fold 
With  many  a  brilliant  ray  of  gold, 
Or  places  on  his  brow  of  blue 
The  crescent  with  its  silver  hue. 

There,  'neath  a  plantain's  sacred  shade, 
Which  deep,  and  dark,  and  widely  spread, 
Al  Shinar's  high  prophetic  form 
Held  secret  counsel  with  the  storm  ; 
His  hand  had  grasped,  with  fearless  might. 
The  mantle  of  descending  night. 


AMIR  KUAN. 

Such  matchless  skill  the  prophet  knew, 
Such  wond'rous  feats  his  hand  could  do, 
That  Persia's  realm  astonished  saw, 
And  Cashmere's  valley  gazed  with  awe ! 

Low  bowed  the  lofty  Amir  Khan, 

Before  the  high  and  mighty  man, 

And  bending  o'er  the  Naptha's  stream, 

Which  onward  rolled  its  fiery  gleam, 

The  Subahdar  in  murmurs  told 

Of  beauteous  form,  of  bosom  cold, 

Of  rayless  eye,  of  changeless  cheek, 

Of  tongue  which  could  or  would  not  speak. 

At  length  the  mourner's  tale  had  ceased, 

He  crossed  his  hands  upon  his  breast ; 

He  spoke  no  word,  he  breathed  no  sigh, 

But  keenly  fixed  his  piercing  eye 

Upon  Al  Shinar's  gloomy  brow, 

In  all  the  deep  despair  of  woe. 

The  Prophet  paused ;  his  eye  he  raised, 

And  stern  and  earnestly  he  gazed, 

As  if  to  pierce  the  sable  veil 

Which  would  conceal  the  mournful  tale  ; 

When,  starting  with  a  sudden  blow, 

He  oped  a  portal  dark  and  low, 

Which  shrouded  from  each  mortal  eye 

Al  Shinar's  cavern  broad  and  high  ; 

'Twas  bright,  'twas  exquisitely  bright, 

For  founts  of  rich  and  living  light 

There  poured  their  burning  treasures  forth, 

Which  sought  again  their  parent  earth. 


AMIR  KHAN. 

Rich  vases,  with  sweet  incense  streaming, 
Mirrors  a  flood  of  brilliance  beaming, 
Fountain,  and  bath,  and  curling  stream, 
At  every  turn  before  them  beam  ; 
And  marble  pillars,  pure  and  cold, 
And  glittering  roof,  inlaid  with  gold, 
And  gems  and  diamonds  met  his  view 
In  wild  and  rich  profusion  too  ; 
And  had  Amreta's  smiles  been  given, 
This  place  had  been  the  Moslem  heaven  ! 

The  Prophet  paused  ;  while  Amir  Khan 
Gazed,  awe-struck,  on  the  wond'rous  man, 
Al  Shinar  plucked  a  pale  blue  flower, 
Which  bent  beneath  the  fountain's  shower, 
Then  slowly  turned  towards  Amir  Khan, 
And  placed  the  treasure  in  his  hand. 

"  Mark  me  ! "  he  cried ;  "  this  pensive  flower, 
Gathered  at  midnight's  magic  hour, 
Will  charm  each  passion  of  the  breast, 
And  calm  each  throbbing  nerve  to  rest  ; 
'Twill  leave  thy  bounding  bosom  warm, 
Yet  set  death's  seal  upon  thy  form  ; 
'Twill  leave  thee  stiff,  and  cold,  and  pale, 
A  slumberer  'neath  an  icy  veil, 
But  still  shall  Reason's  conscious  reign 
Unbroken,  undisturbed,  remain, 
And  thou  shalt  hear,  and  feel,  and  know 
Each  sigh,  each  touch,  each  throb  of  woe ! 


AMIR  KHAN. 

"  Go  thou  !  and  if  Amreta  be 
Worthy  of  love,  and  worthy  thee, 
When  she  beholds  thee  pale  and  cold, 
Wrapped  in  the  damp  sepulchral  fold  ; 
When  her  eye  wanders  for  that  glow 
Once  burning  on  thy  marble  brow  ; 
Then,  if  her  bosom's  icy  frame 
Hath  ever  warmed  'neath  passion's  flame, 
'Twill  heave  tumultuous  as  it  glows 
Like  Baikal's  everlasting  throes  ;  • 
And  if,  to-morrow  eve,  you  press 
This  pale  cold  floweret  to  your  breast, 
Ere  morning  smiles,  its  spell  will  prove 
If  that  cold  heart  be  worth  thy  love ! 


PART  II. 

THERE'S  silence  in  the  princely  halls, 
And  brightly  blaze  the  lighted  walls, 
While  clouds  of  musk  and  incense  rise 
From  vases  of  a  thousand  dyes, 
And  roll  their  perfumed  treasures  wide, 
In  one  luxuriant,  fragrant  tide  ; 
And  glittering  chandeliers  of  gold, 
Reflecting  fire  from  every  fold, 
Hung  o'er  the  shrouded  body  there, 
Of  Cashmere's  once  proud  Subahdar ! 
The  crystal's  and  the  diamond's  rays 
Kindled  a  wide  and  brilliant  blaze  ; 
The  ruby's  blush,  the  coral's  hue, 


TO  AMIR  KHAN. 

By  Peris  dipped  in  Henni's  dew, 

The  topaz'  rich  and  golden  ray, 

The  opal's  flame,  the  agate  gray, 

The  amethyst  of  violet  hue, 

The  sapphire  with  its  heavenly  blue, 

The  snow-white  jasper  sparkling  there 

Near  the  carbuncle's  deepening  glare, 

The  warm  cornelian's  blushing  glow 

Reflected  back  the  brilliant  flow 

Of  light,  which  in  refulgent  streams, 

O'er  hall,  o'er  bower,  and  fountain  beams. 

O'er  beds  of  roses,  bright  with  dew, 

Unfolding  modestly  to  view, 

Each  trembling  leaf,  each  blushing  breast, 

In  Cashmere's  wildest  sweetness  dressed  ; 

Through  vistas  long,  through  myrtle  bowers 

Where  Amir  Khan  once  passed  his  hours 

In  gazing  on  Amreta's  face, 

So  full  of  beauty,  full  of  grace, 

Through  veils  of  silver  bright  and  clear, 

It  poured  its  softened  radiance  far  ; 

Or  beamed  in  pure  and  milky  brightness, 

O'er  urns  of  alabaster  whiteness  ; 

Through  Persian  screens  of  glittering  gold, 

O'er  many  an  altar's  sacred  fold, 

Where  to  Eternity  will  blaze 

The  naphtha's  never-fading  rays, 

The  Gheber's  fire  which  dieth  never, 

But  burns,  and  beams,  and  glows  forever! 


AMIR   KHAN. 

'Twas  silent :  not  a  voice  was  heard  — 
No  sigh,  no  murmur,  not  one  word 
Was  echoed  through  that  brilliant  hall  ; 
The  spell  of  silence  hung  o'er  all ; 
For  there  had  paused  the  wing  of  death, 
The  midnight  spirit's  withering  breath. 

At  that  still  hour  no  sound  arose 
To  break  the  charm  of  deep  repose  ; 
The  lake  was  glittering,  and  the  breeze  t 
Sighed  softly  through  the  tzinnar  trees, 
And  kissed  the  Wuller's  wave  of  blue, 
Or  sipped  the  gull's  light  trembling  dew  ; 
But  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sigh 
Was  wafted  by  the  night-breeze  by, 
Through  that  wide  hall  and  princely  bower, 
At  midnight's  calm  and  solemn  hour  ! 

O !  where  was  Love  his  night-watch  keeping  ! 
Or  was  the  truant  sweetly  sleeping  ? 
Where  was  he  at  that  hour  of  rest, 
By  him  created,  claimed,  and  blessed  ? 
Where  were  the  tears  of  Love,  and  Sorrow, 
The  sigh  which  Sympathy  can  borrow  ? 
Where  were  regret,  and  chill  despair  ? 
Where  was  Amreta  ?  —  where,  O  where  ? 

Hark !  'tis  the  night-breeze  softly  playing, 
Through  veils  of  glittering  silver  straying  — 
No!  'tis  a  step — so  quick,  so  light, 
That  the  wild  flower  which  weeps  at  night, 


AMIR  KHAN. 

Would  raise  again  its  drooping  head, 
To  greet  the  footstep  which  had  fled. 

'Tis  not  the  breeze  which  floats  around, 
Lifting  the  light  veil  from  the  ground  : 
No !  'tis  a  form  of  heavenly  mien 
Hath  dared  to  draw  the  curtain's  screen. 

Dimly,  behind  the  fluttering  veil, 
Which  trembles  in  the  breathing  gale, 
A  form  appears  of  seraph  mould 
As  'neath  a  light  cloud's  fleecy  fold  ; 
The  veil  is  drawn  with  hasty  hand, 
Loosed  is  the  rich  embroidered  band  ;     - 
'Tis*  solemn  solitude  around, 
There's  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound, — 
Again  a  snowy  hand  is  seen, 
Again  is  raised  the  silken  screen, 
And  lo  !  with  ligh.t  and  noiseless  tread, 
Amreta  glided  from  its  shade  ! 

Her  veil  was  fluttering  in  the  air, 
Her  brow,  as  Parian  marble  fair, 
Was  glittering  bright  with  many  a  gem 
Set  in  a  brilliant  diadem  ; 
Her  long  dark  hair  was  floating  far, 
Braided  with  many  a  diamond  star  ; 
Her  eye  was  raised,  and  O !  that  eye 
Seemed  only  formed  to  gaze  on  high  ! 
For  O,  more  piercing  bright  its  beam 
Than  diamonds  'neath  Golconda's  stream 


AMIR  KHAN.  13 

That  angel-eye  was  only  given 

To  look  upon  its  native  heaven ! 

The  glow  upon  her  cheek  was  bright, 

But  it  came,  and  it  fled  like  a  meteor's  light ; 

A  brilliant  tear  was  still  lingering  there, 

And  O,  it  was  shed  for  the  Subahdar! 

O'er  every  tear  the  maiden  shed, 
The  heart  of  Amir  Khan  had  bled  ; 
Now,  Amir  Khan,  she  weeps  for  thee, 
O  !  what  must  be  thy  ecstasy  ?   . 
For  Amir  Khan  Amreta  weeps, 
Yet  Amir  Khan  unheeding  sleeps  ! 
Like  crystal  dew-drops  purely  glowing, 
O'er  his  pale  brow  her  tears  are  flowing  ; 
She  wipes  them  with  her  veil  away, 
Less  sacred  far  —  less  sweet  than  they  ! 

Where  was  that  eye  whose  ardent  gaze 

Had  warmed  her  bosom  with  its  rays  ? 

Where  was  that  glance  of  love  and  woe  ? 

Where  was  that  proud  heart's  throbbing  glow  ? 

All,  all  was  cold  and  silent  there, 

And  all  was  death,  and  dark  despair ! 

She  hid  her  face,  now  cold  and  pale, 

Within  her  sweetly  scented  veil ; 

Then  seized  her  lute,  and  a  strain  so  clear, 

So  soft,  so  mournful  arose  on  the  air, 

That  O  !  it  was  sweet  as  the  music  of  heaven 

O'er  a  lost  one  returning,  a  sinner  forgiven ! 

Such  notes  as  repentance  in  sorrow  might  sing, 

Notes  wafted  to  heaven  by  IsranTs  wing :  — 


14  AMIR  KHAN. 


SONG. 

STAR  of  the  morning !  this  bosom  was  cold, 
When  forced  from  my  native  shade, 

And  I  wrapped  me  around  in  my  mantle's  fold, 
A  mournful  Circassian  maid ! 

I  vowed  that  rapture  should  never  move 
This  changeless  cheek,  this  rayless  eye, 

I  vowed  to  feel  neither  bliss  nor  love, — 
In  silence  to  meet  thee,  and  then  to  die ! 

Each  burning  sigh  thy  bosom  hath  breathed, 
Has  been  melting  that  chain  away ; 

The  galling  chain  which  around  me  I  wreathed, 
On  the  morn  of  that  fatal  day ! 

'Tis  done !  and  this  night  I  have  broken  the  vow 
Which  bound  me  in  silence  forever ! 

And  thy  spirit  hath  fled  from  a  world  of  woe, 
To  return  again,  never !  O  never  ! 

My  soul  is  sad !  and  my  heart  is  weary  ! 

For  thy  bosom  is  cold  to  me  ; 
Without  thy  smile  the  world  is  dreary, 

And  I  will  fly  with  thee! 

Together  we'll  float  down  eternity's  stream, 
Twin  stars  on  the  breast  of  the  billow, 


AMIR  KHAN,  15 

The  splendors  of  Paradise  round  us  shall  beam, 
And  thy  bosom  shall  be  my  pillow  ! 

Then  open  thine  arms,  bright  star  of  the  morning ! 

My  grave  in  thy  bosom  shall  be, 
The  glories  of  Paradise  round  us  are  dawning, 

My  heaven  is  only  with  thee ! 


Hushed  were  the  words,  and  hushed  the  song, 

Which  sadly,  sweetly  flowed  along, 

But  Amir  Khan's  warm  heart  beat  high, 

Though  closed  and  rayless  was  his  eye  ; 

And  every  note  which  struck  his  ear, 

Whispered  a  hovering  angel  near ; 

And  each  warm  tear  that  wet  his  cheek, 

Her  long-concealed  regard  bespeak  ; 

His  bosom  bounded  to  be  free, 

And  fluttered, — wild  with  ecstasy! 

O !  would  the  magic  charm  had  passed  ! 

Would  that  the  morn  would  break  at  last! 

But  no,  —  it  will  not,  may  not  be  ! 

He  is  not,  nor  can  yet  be  free ! 

But  hark  !  Amreta's  murmurs  rise, 
Sweet  as  the  bird  of  Paradise  ; 
She  bowed  her  head,  and  deeply  sighed, 
"  Yes,  Amir  Khan,  I  am  thy  bride ! 
And  here  the  crimson  hand  of  death 


1 6  AMIR  KHAN 

Shall  wed  us  with  a  rosy  wreath  ! 
My  blood  shall  join  us  as  it  flows, 
And  bind  us  in  a  deep  repose !  " 

Beneath  her  veil  a  light  is  beaming, 
A  dagger  in  her  hand  is  gleaming, 
And  livid  was  the  light  it  threw, 
A  pale,  cold,  death-like  stream  of  blue, 
Around  her  form  of  arigel  brightness, 
And  o'er  her  brow  of  marble  whiteness ! 

Awake !  O  Amir  Khan,  awake  ! 
Canst  thou  not  rouse  thee  for  her  sake  ? 
Beside  thee  can  Amreta  stand, 
The  fatal  dagger  in  her  hand, 
And  canst  thou  still  regardless  lie, 
And  let  thy  loved  Amreta  die  ? 
Awake  !  O  Amir  Khan,  awake  ! 
And  rouse  thee  for  Amreta's  sake ! 

—  Like  lightning  from  a  midnight  cloud, 
The  Subahdar,  from  'neath  his  shroud, 
Burst  the  cold,  magic,  death-like  band, 
And  snatched  the  dagger  from  her  hand ! 
The  maiden  sunk  upon  his  breast, 
And  deep  and  lengthened  was  her  rest ! 
There  "was  no  sigh,  no  murmur  there, 
And  scarcely  breathed  the  Subahdar, 
While  almost  fearing  to  be  blest, 
He  clasped  Amreta  to  his  breast ! 
Deep  buried  in  his  mantle's  fold, 


AMIR   KHAN.  17 

He  felt  not  that  her  cheek  was  cold  ; 

His  own  heart  throbbed  with  pleasure's  thrill, 

But  whispered  not  that  hers  was  still ! 

—  Yes !  the  wild  flow  of  blissful  joy. 
Which,  bursting,  threatened  to  destroy, 
Gave  to  her  soul  a  rest  from  feeling  ; 
A  transient  torpor  gently  stealing 

O'er  beating  pulse,  and  throbbing  breast, 
Had  calmed  her  every  nerve  to  rest  ; 

—  But  see !  the  tide  of  life  returns, 
Once  more  her  cheek  with  rapture  burns, 
Once  more  her  dark  eye's  heavenly  beam 
Pours  forth  its  full  and  piercing  gleam, 
Once  more  her  heart  is  bounding  high, 
Too  full  to  weep  —  too  blest  to  sigh  ! 

1824. 


CHICOMICO. 

THIS  Poem  is  founded  on  the  following  actual  occurrences  :  During  the 
Seminole  war,  Duncan  M.  Rimmon  (the  Rathmond  of  the  poem),  a  Georgia 
militiaman,  was  captured  by  the  Indians.  Hillis-adjo,  their  chief,  con 
demned  him  to  death.  He  was  bound  ;  but  while  the  instruments  of  tor 
ture  were  preparing,  the  tender-hearted  daughter  of  Hillis-adjo  (the  Chi- 
comico  of  the  tale)  threw  herself  between  the  prisoner  and  his  executioners, 
and  interceded  with  her  father  for  his  release.  She  was  successful-  His 
life  was  spared.  In  the  progress  of  the  war,  however,  it  was  the  fate  of 
the  generous  Hillis-adjo  (the  prophet  Francis)  himself  to  be  taken  a  pris 
oner  of  war,  and  it  was  thought  necessary  to  put  him  to  death.  These  in 
cidents  Miss  Davidson  wrought  up,  with  other  characters  (probably  ficti 
tious),  to  compose  the  whole  of  this  poem.  The  first  part  of  the  poem 
is  so  incomplete,  that  it  was  thought  best  to  introduce  the  reader  immedi- 
to  the  second  part.  The  war  had  broken  out.  Chicomico  had  solicited  the 
presence  of  Ompahaw,  a  venerable  chief,  to  aid  her  father  Hillis-adjo 
against  the  whites,  with  Rathmond  at  their  head.  The  battle  is  described, 
the  Indians  are  victorious,  and  Rathmond  is  taken  prisoner.  Here  the 
second  part  commences. 


PART   II. 

WHAT  sight  of  horror,  fear  and  woe, 

Now  greets  chief  Hillis-ha-ad-joe  ? 

What  thought  of  blood  now  lights  his  eye  ? 

What  victim  foe  is  doomed  to  die  ? 

For  his  cheek  is  flushed,  and  his  air  is  wild, 

And  he  cares  not  to  look  on  his  only  child. 


CHICOMICO.  19 

His  lip  quivers  with  rage,  his  eye  flashes  fire, 
And  his  bosom  beats  high  with  a  tempest  of  ire. 
Alas !  'tis  Rathmond  stands  a  prisoner  now, 
Awaiting  death  from  Hillis-ha-ad-joe, 

From  Hillis-ha-ad-joe,  the  stern,  the  dread, 
To  whose  vindicate,  cruel,  savage  mind, 
Loss  after  loss  fast  following  from  behind, 

Had  only  added  thirst  insatiate  for  blood  ; 
And  now  he  swore  by  all  his  heart  held  dear, 
That  limb  from  limb  his  victims  he  would  tear. 

But  ah !  young  Rathmond's  case  what  tougue  can  tell ! 
Upon  his  hapless  fate  what  heart  can  dwell  ? 
To  die  when  manhood  dawns  in  rosy  light, 

To  be  cut  off  in  all  the  bloom  of  life, 
To  view  the  cup  untasted  snatched  from  sight, 

Is  sure  a  thought  with  horror  doubly  rife. 
Alas,  poor  youth !  how  sad,  how  faint  thy  heart ! 

When .  memory  paints  the  forms  endeared  by  love, 
From  these  so  soon,  so  horribly  to  part  ; 

O !  it  would  almost  savage  bosoms  move  ! 
But  unextinguished  hope  still  lit  his  breast, 
And  aimless  still,  drew  scenes  of  future  rest ! 
Caught  at  each  distant  light  which  dimly  gleamed, 
Though  sinking,  'mid  the  abyss  o'er  which  it  beamed, 
Like  the  poor  mariner,  who,  tossed  around, 
Strains  his  dim  eye  to  ocean's  farthest  bound, 
Paints,  in  each  snowy  wave,  assistance  near, 
And  as  it  rolls  away,  gives  up  to  fear : 
Dreads  to  look  round,  for  death's  on  every  side, 
The  lowering  clouds  above  the  ocean  wide : 


20  CHICOMICO. 

He  wails  alone  —  "  and  scarce  forbears  to  weep," 
That  his  wrecked  bark  still  lingers  on  the  deep  f 

E'en  to  the  child  of  penury  and  woe, 

Who  knows  no  friend  that  o'er  his  grave  will  weep,* 
Whose  tears  in  childhood's  hour  were  taught  to  flow, 

Looks  with  dismay  across  death's  horrid  deep ! 
Then,  when  suspended  o'er  that  awful  brink, 

Snatched  from  each  joy,  which  opening  life  may  give, 
Who  would  not  from  the  prospect  shuddering  shrink, 

And  murmur  out  one  hope-fraught  prayer  to  live! 
But,  see  !  the  captive  now  is  dragged  along, 
While  round  him  mingle  yell  and  wild-war  song  ! 
The  ring  is  formed  around  the  high  raised  pile, 
Fagots  o'er  fagots  reared  with  savage  toil ; 
The  impatient  warriors  watch  with  burning  brands, 
To  toss  the  death-signs  from  their  ruthless  hands ! 
Nearer,  and  nearer  still  the  wretch  is  drawn, 
All  hope  of  life,  of  rescue,  now  is  gone ! 
A  horrid  death  is  placed  before  his  eyes  ; 
In  fancy  now  he  sees  the  flames  arise, 
He  hears  the  deafening  yell  which  drowns  the  cry 
Of  the  poor  victim's  last,  dire  agony! 
His  heart  was  sick,  he  strove  in  vain  to  pray 

To  that  great  God,  before  whose  awful  bar 
His  lightened  soul  was  soon  to  wing  its  way 

From  this  sad  world  to  other  realms  afar ! 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven's  blue  arch  above, 
That  pure  retreat  of  mercy  and  of  love  ; 
When,  lo !  two  fellow-sufferers  caught  his  eye. 

*  Campbell- 


CHICOMICO.  2 I 

The  prophet  Montonoc  is  doomed  to  die ! 
His  haughty  spirit  now  must  be  brought  low  ; 
Long  had  he  been  the  chieftain's  direst  foe : 
The  Indian's  face  was  wrapped  in  mystic  gloom, 
As  on  they  led  him  to  his  horrid  doom. 
A  hectic  flush  upon  his  dark  cheek  burned, 
His  eye  nor  to  the  right   nor  left  hand  turned: 
His  lip  nor  quivered,  nor  turned  pale  with  fear, 
Though  the  death-note  already  met  his  ear. 
Tall  and  majestic  was  his  noble  mien, 

Erect,  he  seemed  to  brave  the  foeman's  ire, 
His  step  was  bold,  his  features  all  serene, 

As  he  approached  the  steep  funereal  pyre  ! 

Close  at  his  side,  a  figure  glided  slow, 
Clad  in  the  dark  habiliments  of  woe, 
Whose  form  was  shrouded  in  a  mantle's  fold, 
All,  save  one  treacherous  ringlet,  —  bright  as  gold. 

The  death-song's  louder  note  shrill  peals  on  high, 

A  signal  that  the  victim  soon  must  die ! 

While  yell  and  war-note  join  the  chorus  still, 

Till  the  wild  dirge  rebounds  from  hill  to  hill ! 

Rathmond  now  turned  to  snatch  a  last  sad  gaze, 

Ere  closed  life's  curtain  o'er  his  youthful  days  ; 

When  he  beheld  the  dark,  the  piercing  eye 

Of  Montonoc,  the  prophet  doomed  to  die, 

Bent  upon  him  with  such  a  steady  gaze, 

That  not  more  fixed  was  death's  own  horrid  glaze ! 

Then  lifting  his  long  swarthy  finger  high, 

To  where  the  sun's  bright  beams  just  tinged  the  sky 


22  CHICOMICO. 

And  o'er  the  parting  day  its  glories  spread, 
Which  was  to  close  when  their  sad  souls  had  fled,  — 
"White  man,"  he  cried,  in  low  mysterious  tone, 
Caught  but  by  Rathmond's  listening  ear  alone, 
"  Ere  the  bright  eye  of  yon  red  orb  shall  sleep, 
This  haughty  chief  his  fallen  tribe  shall  weep ! " 
He  said  no  more  ;  for  lo  !  the  death-yells  cease. 
'Tis  hushed !  no  sound  is  echoed  through  the  place. 
The  opening  ring  disclosed  a  female  there, 
In  a  rich  mantle  shrouded,  save  her  hair, 
Which,  long  and  dark,  luxuriant  round  her  hung, 
With  many  a  clear  white  pearl  and  dew-drop  strung. 

She  threw  back  the  mantle  which  shaded  her  face, 

She  spoke  not,  but  looked  the  pale  spirit  of  woe  ! 
The  angel  of  mercy,  the  herald  of  grace, 

Knelt  the  sorrowful  daughter  of  Hillis-ad-joe  ! 
"  My  father  !  my  father  !  "  the  maiden  exclaims, 
"  O  doom  not  the  white  man  to  die  'midst  the  flames ; 
'Tis  thy  daughter  who  kneels,  'tis  Chicomico  sues, 
Can  my  father,  the  friend  of  my  childhood,  refuse  ? 
This  heart  is  the  white  man's,  with  him  will  I  die, 
With  him  to  the  Great  Spirit's  mansion  I'll  fly ; 
The  flames  which  to  heaven  will  waft  his  pure  soul, 
Round  the  form  of  thy  daughter  encircling  shall  roll  ; 
My  life  is  his  life — his  fate  shall  be  mine; 
For  his  image  around  thy  child's  heart  will  entwine ! 

Man's  breast  may  be  cruel,  and  savage,  and  stern, 
From  the  sufferings  of  others  it  heedless  may  turn  ; 
To  the  pleadings  of  want,  to  the  wan  face  of  woe, 


CHIC  0  MIC  0.  23 

To  the  sorrow-wrung  drops  which  around  it  may  flow, 
But  'twill  melt  like  the  snow  on  the  Apennine's  breast, 
As  the  sunbeam  falls  light  on  its  fancy-crowned  crest, 
When  the  voice  of  a  child  to  its  cold  ear  is  given, 
Filled  with  sorrow's  sad  notes  like  the  music  of  'heaven. 

"  Loose  the  white  man,"  the  king  in  agony  cried, 

"  My  child,  what  you  plead  for,  can  ne'er  be  denied  ! 

The  prisoner  is  yours  !  to  enslave  or  to  free  ! 

I  yield  him,  Chicomico,  wholly  to  thee ; 

But    remember ! "    he   cried,  while  pride  conquered  his 

woe, 

"Remember,  thy  father  is  Hillis-ad-joe!" 
He  frowned,  and  his  brow,  like  the  curtains  of  night, 
Looked  darker,  when  tinged  by  a  moonbeam  of  light ; 
Chicomico  saw  —  she  saw,  and  with  dread, 
The  storm,  which  returning,  might  burst  o'er  her  head  ; 
And  quickly  to  Rathmond  she  turned  with  a  sigh, 
While  a  love-brightened  tear  veiled  her  heavenly  eye. 

"  Go,  white  man,  go !  without  a  fear  ; 
Remember  you  to  one  are  dear ; 
Go !  and  may  peace  your  steps  attend  ; 
Chicomico  will  be  your  friend. 
To-morrow  eve  with  us  may  close 
Joyful,  and  free  from  cares  or  woes  ; 
To-morrow  eve  may  also  end, 
And  find  me  here  without  a  friend  ! 
Remember  then  the  Indian  maid, 
Whose  voice  the  burning  brand  hath  stayed ! 
But  should  I  be,  as  now  I  am, 


*  4  CH1COMICO. 

And  thou  in  prison  and  in  woe, 
Think  that  this  heart  is  still  the  same, 

And  turn  thee  to  Chicomico! 
Then,  go !  yes,  go  !  while  yet  you  may, 
Dread  death  awaits  you  if  you  stay ! 
May  the  Great  Spirit  guard  and  guide 
Your  footsteps  through  the  forest  wide  ! " 
She  said,  and  wrapped  her  mantle  near 

Her  fragile  form,  with  hasty  hand, 
Just  bowed  her  head,  and  shed  one  tear, 

Then  sped  him  to  his  native  land. 

The  wind  is  swift,  and  mountain  hart, 

From  huntsman's  bow  the  feathered  dart  ; 

But  swifter  far  the  prisoner's  flight, 

When  freed  from  dungeon-chains  and  night ! 

So  Rathmond  felt,  but  wished  to  show 

How  much  he  owed  Chicomico ; 

But  she  had  fled ;  she  did  not  hear ! 

She  did  not  mark  the  grateful  tear 

Which  quivered  in  the  hero's  eye  ; 

Nor  did  she  catch  the  half-breathed  sigh  ; 

And   Heaven  alone  could  hear  the  prayer, 

Which  Rathmond's  full  heart  proffered  there. 


PART  III. 

WHILE  swift  on  his  way  young  Rathmond  sped, 
Death's  horrors  awaited  those  he  fled. 
Already  were  the  prisoners  bound,  — 


CH1COMICO.  25 

One  word,  and  every  torch  would  fly  ; 
No  step  was  heard,  nor  feeblest  sound, 

Save  the  death  raven's  wing  on  high ! 
The  sign  was  given,  each  blazing  brand 
Like  lightning  shot  from  every  hand  ; 
The   crackling,  sparkling  fagots  blazed, — 
Then   Montonoc  his  dark  eye  raised ; 
He  whistled  shrill — an  answering  call 
Told  that  each  foeman  then  should  fall ! 
Sudden  a  band  of  warriors  flew 
From  earth,  as  if  from  earth  they  grew. 
The  brake,  the  fern,  and  hazel-down, 
Blazed  brightly  in  the  sinking  sun  ; 
Confusion,  blood,  and  carnage  then 
Spread  their  broad  pinions  o'er  the  glen ; 
The  blazing  brands  were  quenched  in  blood, 
And  Montonoc  unshackled  stood  ! 
He  paused  one  moment  —  dark  he  frowned, 
By  dire  revenge  and  slaughter  crowned ; 
Then   bent  his  bow,  let  loose  the  dart, 
And  pierced  the  foeman  Chieftain's  heart. 
Yes,   Montonoc,  thy  arrow  sped, 
For  Hillis-ha-ad-joe  is  dead  ! 

And  now  within  their  hidden  tent, 
The  conquered  make  their  sad  lament ; 
Before  them  lay  their  slaughtered  king, 
While  slowly  round  they  form   the  ring ; 
Dread  e'en   in  death,  the  Chieftain's  form 
Seemed  made  to  stride  the  whirlwind  storm  ; 
Upon  his  brow  a  dreadful  frown 
Still  lingered  as  the  warrior's   crown  ; 


26  CHI  COM  ICO. 

And  yet  it  seemed  as  mortal    ire 
Still  sparkled  in  that  eye  of  fire, 
And,   blazing,  soon  should  light  the  face 
O'er  which  death's  shadow  held  its  place, 
And  like  the  lightning  'neath  a  cloud, 
Shoot  flaming  from  its  sable  shroud. 
But,  hark!  low  notes  of  sorrow  break 
The  solemn  calm,  and  o'er  the  lake, 
Float  on  the  bosom  of  the  gale  ; 
Hark !  'tis  the  Chieftain's  funeral  wail ! 

Fallen,  fallen,  fallen  low 

Lies  great  Hillis-ha-ad-joe ! 

To  the  land  of  the  dead, 

By  the  white  man  sped ! 

In  his  hunting   garb  they  shall   welcome  him  there^ 
To  the  land  of  the  bow  and  the  antlered  deer ! 

Fallen  is  Hillis-ha-ad-joe  ! 

Chant  his  death-dirge  sad  and  slow  ; 

In  the  battle  he  fell,  in  the  fight  he  died, 

And   many  a  brave  warrior  sunk   by  his  side. 
In  his  hunting  garb  they  shall  welcome  him  there, 
To  the  land  of  the  bow  and  the  antlered  deer. 

The  sun  is  sinking  in  the  deep, 

Our  "  mighty  fallen  one "  we  weep ; 

Fallen  is  Hillis-ha-ad-joe ! 

The  axe  has  laid  our  broad  oak  low ! 
In  his  hunting  garb  they  shall  welcome   him  there, 
To  the  land  of  the  bow  and  the  antlered  deer. 


CHICOMICO.  2  7 

The  last  sad  note  had  sunk  on  the  breeze, 
Which  mournfully  sighed  among  the  dark  trees, 
When  a  form  thickly  shrouded,  swift  glided  along, 
But  joined  not  her  voice  to  the  funeral  song. 
When   the   notes  ceased,  she  knelt,  and  in  accents  of 

woe, 

Besought  the  Great  Spirit  for  Hillis-ad-joe. 
Her  words  were  but  few,  and  her  manner  was  wild, 
For  she  was  the  slaughtered  Chiefs  poor  orphan  child ! 
She  raised  her  dark  eye  to  the  sun  sinking  red, 
She  looked,  and  that  glance  told  that  reason  had  fled ! 

Why  does  thy  eye  roll  wild,  Chicomico  ? 
Why  dost  thou  shake  like  aspen's  quivering  bough  ? 
Why  o'er  that  fine  brow  streams  thy  raven  hair  ? 
Read  !  for  the  "  wreck  of  reason's  written  there  ! " 
'Tis  true !  the  storm  was  high,  the  surges  wild, 
And  reason  fled  the  Chieftain's  orphan  child  ! 
Thou  poor  heart-broken  wretch  on  life's  wild  sea, 
Say  !  who  is  left  to  love,  to  comfort  thee  ? 
All,  all  are  gone,  and  thou  art  left  alone, 
Like  the  last  rose,  by  autumn  rudely  blown. 

But  she  has  fled,  the  wild  and  winged  wind 
Is  by  her  left,  long  loitering  far  behind! 
But  whither  has  she  fled  ?  to  wild- wood  glen, 
Far  from  the  cares,  the  joys,  the  haunts  of  men ! 
Her  bed  the  rock,  her  drink  the  rippling  stream, 
And  murdered  friends  her  ever  constant  dream  ! 
Her  wild  death-song  is  wafted  on  the  gale, 
Which  echoes  round  the  Chieftain's  funeral  wail ! 


28  CHICOMICO. 

Her  little  skiff  she  paddles  o'er  the  lake, 
And  bids  "  the  Daughter  of  the  Voice,"  awake  ! 
From  hill  to  hill  the  shrieking  echoes  run, 
To  greet  the  rising  and  the  setting  sun. 


PART  IV. 

THE  lake  is  calm,  the  sun  is  low, 

The  whippoorwill  is  chanting  slow, 

And  scarce  a  leaf  through  the  forest  is  seen 

To  wave  in  the  breeze  its  rich  mantle  of  green. 

Fit  emblem  of  a  guiltless  mind, 

The  glassy  waters  calmly  lie  ; 
Unruffled  by  a  breath  of  wind, 

Which  o'er  its  shining  breast  may  sigh  ! 
The  shadow  of  the  forest  there 

Upon  its  bosom  soft  may  rest ; 
The  eagle-heights,  which  tower  in  air, 

May  cast  their  dark  shades  o'er  its  breast. 

But  hark !  approaching  paddles  break 
The  stillness  of  that  azure  lake ! 
Swift  o'er  its  surface  glides  the  bark, 
Like  lightning's  flash,  like  meteor  spark 
It  seemed,  as  on  the  light  skiff  flew, 
As  it  scarce  kissed  the  wave's  deep  blue, 
Which,  dimpling  round  the  vessel's  side, 
Sparkled  and  whirled  in  eddies  wide ! 

Who  guides  it  through  the  yielding  lake  ? 


CHICOMICO.  29 

Who  dares  its  magic  calm  to  break  ? 
'Tis  Montonoc  !  his  piercing  eye 

Is  raised  to  where  the  western  hill 
Rears  its  broad  forehead  to  the  sky, 

Battling  the  whirlwind's  fury  still. 

'Twas  Montonoc,  and  with  him  there 
Was  that  strange  form,  with  golden  hair  ! 
Wrapped  in  the  self-same  garb,  as  when, 
Surrounded  by  those  savage  men, 
The  stranger  had,  with  Montonoc, 
Been  led  before  the  blazing  stake ! 
Swift,  swift  the  light  skiff  forward  flew, 
Till  it  had  crossed  the  waters  blue  ; 
Both  leaped  like  lightning  to  the  land, 
And  left  the  skiff  upon  the  strand ; 
Far  'mid  the  forest  then  they  fled, 
And  mingled  with  its  dark  brown  shade. 

The  oak's  broad  arms  in  the  breeze  were  creaking, 
The  bird  of  the  gloomy  brow  was  shrieking, 
When  a  note  on  the  night-wind  was  wafted  along, 
A  note  of  the  dead  Chieftain's  funeral  song. 
A  form  was  seen  wandering  in  frantic  woe, 
'Twas  the  maniac  daughter  of  Hillis-ad-joe ! 
Her  dark  hair  was  borne  on  the  night-wind  afar, 
And    she    sung    the  wild    dirge  of  the  Blood-hound  of 

War! 
She    ceased   when   she   came    near   the   breeze-ruffled 

lake  ; 
She    ceased  —  was't    the   wind    sighing   o'er   the   long 

brake  ? 


3°  CHI  COM  ICO. 

VVas't    the    soft    rippling  wave  ?  was't   the    murmur   of 

trees, 
Which,  bending,    were    brushed    by    the   wing   of    the 

breeze  ? 

Ah,  no !  for  she  shrieked,  as  her  piercing  eye  caught 
A  form  which  her  frenzied  brain  never  forgot ! 
'Twas    Rathmond !    yes,    Rathmond    before    her    now 

stood, 
And  he  glanced  his  full  eye  on  the  child  of  the  wood. 

"  Chicomico !  "  he  cried,  his  voice  sad  and  low, 

'*  Chicomico  !  we  are  the  children  of  woe ! 

O,  come,  then  !  O,  come  !   and  thy  Rathmond's  strong 

arm 

Shall  shelter  thee  ever  from  danger  and  harm  ; 
Tis  true,  I  have  loved  with  the  passion  of  youth  ! 
I  have  loved  ;  and  let  Heaven  attest  with  what  truth  ! 
But,  Cordelia,  thy  ashes  are  mixed  with  the  dead  " 
(Here  his  eye  flashed  more  fierce,  and  his  pale   cheek 

turned  red) 

"  'Twas  thy  father,  Chicomico  —  yes,  'twas  thy  sire, 
Who  kindled  the  loved  saint's  funereal  pyre! 
But,  'tis  passed  "  —  (and  he  crossed  his  cold,  quivering 

hand 

O'er  a  brow  that  was  burning  like  Zahara's  sand,) 
"  'Tis  passed !  and  Chicomico,  thou  didst  preserve 
The  life  of  a  wretch,  who  now  never  can  love ! 
That  life  is  thy  own,  with  a  heart,  that  though  chilled 
To  passion's  soft  throb,  is  with  gratitude  filled  ! " 

She   turned   her  dark   eye,  from  which    reason's  bright 
fire 


CHICOMICO.  3 1 

•Had  fled,  with  the  ghosts  of  her  friends  —  of  her  sire  ; 
"  Young    Eagle !  "    she    cried,    "  when    my   father   was 

slain, 

What  white  man,  who  ravaged  along  that  dread  plain, 
Withheld  the  dire  blow,  and  plead  for  the  life 
Of  Hillis-ad-joe  ?  and  say,  who  in  that  strife 
Stayed  the  arm  that  bereft  me,  and  left  me  alone  ? 
Yes,  Young  Eagle !  my  father,  my  brothers  are  gone ! 
Wouldst  thou  ask  me  to  linger  behind  them,  while  they 
To  yon  heaven  in  the  west  are  wending  their  way  ? 
And,  hark !    the   Great    Spirit,  whose   voice   sounds  on 

high, 
Bids    me    come !    and   see,   white   man,   how   gladly    I 

fly!" 
More   swift   than   the   deer,    when   the  hounds    are   in 

view, 

To  the  bark  that  was  stranded,  Chicomico  flew ! 
She  dashed  the  light  oar  in  the  waves'  foaming  spray 
And  thus  wildly  she  sung,  as  she  darted  away  :  — 

"I  go  to  the  land  in  the  west, 

The  Great  Spirit  calls  me  away  ! 
To  the  land  of  the  just  and  the  blest, 
The  Great  Spirit  points  me  the  way ! 

"  Like  snow  on  the  mountain's  crest, 
Like  foam  on  the  fountain's  breast, 

Hillis-ad-joe  and  his  kinsmen  have  passed ! 
Like  the  sun's  setting  ray  in  the  west, 
When  it  sinks  on  the  wave  to  rest, 

The  dead  chieftain's  daughter  is  coming  at  last  ! 


32  CH ICO  MI  CO. 

"  Too  long  has  she  lingered  behind, 

Awaiting  the  Great  Spirit's  voice  ! 
But  hark !  it  calls  loud  in  the  wind, 
And  Chicomico  now  will  rejoice  ! 

"  I  go  to  the  land  in  the  west : 

The  Great  Spirit  calls  me  away ! 
To  the  land  of  the  just  and  the  blest, 
The  Great  Spirit  points  me  the  way ! " 

The  wild  notes  sunk  upon  the  gale, 

And  echo  caught  them  not  again ! 
For  the  breeze  which  bore  the  maiden's  wail, 

Wafted  afar  the  last  sad  strain  ! 

'Twas  said,  that  shrieking  'mid  the  storm, 

The  maiden  oft  was  seen  to  glide, 
And  oft  the  hunters  marked  her  form, 

As  swift  she  darted  through  the  tide. 

And  once  along  the  calm  lake  shore, 
Her  light  canoe  was  she  seen  to  guide, 

But  the  maid  and  her  bark  are  seen  no  more 
To  float  along  the  rippling  tide. 

For  the  billows  foamed,  and  the  winds  did  roar, 
And  her  lamp,  as  it  glimmered  amid  the  storm, 

A  moment  blazed  bright,  and  was  seen  no  more, 
For  it  sunk  'mid  the  waves  with  her  maniac  form ! 


CHICOM1CO.  33 


THE   FAREWELL. 

Adieu,  Chicomico,  adieu  ; 

Soft  may'st  thou  sleep  amid  the  wave, 
And  'neath  thy  canopy  of  blue 

May  sea-maids  deck  thy  coral  grave. 

'Twas  but  a  feeble  voice  which  sung 
Thy  hapless  tale  of  youthful  woe ; 

But  ah !  that  weak,  that  infant  tongue 
Will  ne'er  another  story  know. 

And  though  the  rough  and  foaming  surge, 
And  the  wild  whirlwind  whistling  o'er, 

Should  rudely  chant  thy  funeral  dirge, 
And  send  the  notes  from  shore  to  shore  ; 

Still  shall  one  voice  be  heard,  above 
The  dreadful  "  music  of  the  spheres  !  " 

The  voice  of  one  whose  song  is  love, 
Embalmed  by  sorrow's  saddest  tears. 


PART  V. 

THE  fourth  day  found  the  dark  tribe  brooding  o'er 
Their  chieftain's  body,  chieftain  now  no  more! 
As  fire  half-quenched,  some  faint  spark  lives, 
Glimmers,  half  dies,  and  then  revives, 
3 


34  '  CHICOMICO. 

Revives  to  kindle  far  and  wide, 

And  spread  with  devastating  stride  ; 

So  glimmered,  so  revived,  so  spread 

The  mourners'  rage  around  the  dead  ! 

Their  quivers  o'er  their  shoulders  flung, 

Up  rose  the  aged  and  the  young; 

And  swore,  as  tenants  of  the  wood, 

By  all  their  hearts  held  dear  or  good, 

That,  ere  another  sun  should  rise, 

Their  slaughtered  foes  should  glut  their  eyes. 

They  swore  revenge  and  bloodshed  too, 

As  their  slain  chieftain's  rightful  due  ; 

They  swore  that  blood  should  freely  flow 

For  their  poor,  lost  Chicomico  ! 

'Twas  evening :  all  was  fair  and  still ; 

The  orb  of  night  now  sparkling  on  the  rill, 

Now  glittering  o'er  the  fern,  and  water-brake, 

Cast  its  broad  eye-beam  o'er  the!  lake  ! 

Far  through  the  forest,  where  no  foot-path  lay, 

Old  Montonoc  pursued  his  onward  way ; 

The  fair-haired  stranger  hung  upon  his  arm, 

Shook  at  each  noise,  and  trembled  with  alarm  ; 

"  Well  do  I  know  the  woodland  way, 

For  I  have  tracked  it  many  a  day, 

When  mountain  bear  or  wilder  deer 

Have  called  me  to  this  forest  drear. 

Fear'st  thou  with  Montonoc  to  stray, 

Why  wanderest  thou  so  far  away, 

From  friends,  from  safety,  and  from  home, 

To  war,  and  weariness,  and  gloom  ? 


CHI  COM  ICO.  35 

Thou  must  not  hope,  as  yet,  to  bear 
Free  from  disguise  that  form  so  dear  ; 
It  must  not,  and  it  will  not  be, 
Till,  buried  in  the  dark  Monee, 
The  last  of  yonder  tribe  of  blood 
Lies  weltering  in  the  sable  flood ! 
But  rest  thee  on  this  fresh  green  seat, 
And  I  will  trace  his  wandering  feet ; 
Warn  him  to  watch  the  lurking  foe, 
Whose  bloody  breasts  for  vengeance  glow ; 
Then  rest  thee  here  ;  within  yon   dell 
I  saw  his  form,  and  knew  him  well  ? " 

Thus  spoke  the  prophet  of  the  wood, 
As  near  the  stranger  maid  he  stood. 

"  Then  go,"  she  cried,  half  faltering,  "  go  ! 

Bid  him  beware  the  bloody  foe  ! 

But  give  me,  ere  we  part,"  she  cried, 

"  Yon  blood-stained  death-blade  from  your  side  ; 

Perhaps  this  arm,  though  weak,  may  find 

Strength  in  the  hour  of  deep  distress  ; 
Go !  my  preserver  and  my  friend, 

May  heaven  thy  steps  and  efforts  bless ! " 

Cautious  and  swift  the  Indian  went ; 
His  head  was  raised,  his  bow  was  bent, 
And  as  he  on,  like  wild  deer,  sped, 
So  light,  so  silent,  was  his  tread, 
That  scarce  a  leaf  was  heard  to  move, 
Of  flower  below,  or  branch  above  ! 


36  CHICOMICO. 

Where  Rathmond,  with  a  heart  of  woe, 
Had  gazed  on  lost  Chicomico, 
There,  on  that  spot,  the  prophet's  eye 
Marked  the  young  warrior's  farewell  sigh. 

"  Why  lingerest  thou  here,  Young  Eagle,"  he  cried, 
"  The  foe  'neath  the  fern  and  the  dark  hazel  hide  ! 
Blood,  blood  !  be  our  war-cry,  for  vengeance  is  theirs  ! 
Their  arrows  are  winged  by  despair  and  by  fears ! 
When  the  last  of  the  tribe  of  Hillis-ad-joe 
Hath  plunged  him  beneath  the  deep  waters  below, 
Thy  heart  shall  possess  all  it  wishes  for  here, 
Unchilled  by  a  sigh,  unbedewed  by  a  tear  ! 
But  till  then,  cold  and  vacant  thy  bosom  shall  be, 
And  the  idol  to  which  thou  hast  bended  thy  knee, 
Shall  mark  thee,  and  love  thee,  in  peril  and  woe, 
Yet  till  then  that  dear  being  thou  never  shalt  know!" 

"What  mean'st  thou,  prophet  of  the  eagle-eye, 

By  thy  mysterious  prophecy  ? 

Well  knowest  thou  that  yon  bloody  chief 

Doomed  her  to  death,  and  me  to  grief! 

That  round  that  form  the  wild  flames  rolled 

And  wafted  far  her  angel  soul  .r 

Why  didst  thou  not  arrest  the  brand  ? 

For,  prophet,  fate  was  in  thy  hand." 

"'Tis  well,"  the  Indian  calmly  said, 
"  'Tis  well,"  and  bowed  to  earth  his  head  ; 
"  But,"  he  exclaimed,  with  eye  less  grave, 
"  I  left  a  skiff  on  yonder  wave  — 


CHICOMICO.  37 

Say,  dark-eyed  Eagle,  dost  thou  know 
Aught  of  the  dire,  blood-thirsty  foe  ?  " 

"  No,  Montonoc !  no  foe  was  she, 
Who  plunged  adown  the  swift  Monee. 
Chicomico  is  cold  and  damp  ! 
The  wave  her  couch  —  the  moon  her  lamp  ; 
But  mark !  adown  the  foaming  stream 
The  barks  beneath  the  moon's  pale  beam  ! 
What  bode  they  ?  or  of  weal,  or  woe  ? 
Do  they  betoken  friend  or  foe  ? 
Perchance  to  rouse  the  wildwood  deer 
-  The  Indian  hunters  landed  there." 

Back  they  retraced  their  steps,  till  from  the  hill 
A  female  shriek  rang  loud,  distinct,  and  shrill ! 
Both  start,  both  stop,  and  Montonoc's  dark  eye 
Flashed  like  a  meteor  of  the  northern  sky. 
But  hark !  what  cry  of  savage  joy  is  there, 
Borne  through  the  forest  on  the  midnight  air  ? 

It  is  the  foe!  the  band  of  blood-hounds  came, 
Who  erst  had  lit  the  Chieftain's  funeral  flame ! 
Revenge  and  death  around  their  arrows  gleam, 
And  murder  shudders  'neath  the  moon's  pale  beam  ! 
The  fiercest  warrior  of  their  tribe,  their  chief, 
Sage  in  the  council,  bloody  in  the  strife, 
High  towered  dark  Wompaw's  snowy  plume  in  air, 
Waved  on  the  breeze,  and  shone  a  beacon  there! 
Old  Ompahaw,  with  brow  of  fire, 
And  bosom  burning  high  with  ire, 


38  CHICOMICO. 

And  sparkling  eye,  and  burning  brand, 
Which  gleamed  athwart  both  lake  and  strand, 
Still  echoed  back  the  lengthened  yell 
Which  startled  wildwood,  rock  and  dell ! 
And  more  were  there,  so  dread,  so  wild, 
Nature  might  shudder  at  her  child, 
And  curse  the  hand  that  e'er  had  made 
So  dark  a  stain,  so  deep  a  shade  ! 

On,  on  they  flew,  with  lengthened  stride  ; 

But,  ah !  the  victims,  where  are  they  ?  — 
Naught  but  the  lake  lies  'open  wide, 

And  the  broad  bosom  of  the  bay  ! 
But,  ah !  'tis  well ;  that  shrill  shriek  tolled 

The  death-knell  of  their  chief  once  more  ! 
Yes,  Rathmond,  yes,  the  deed  was  bold, 

That  stretched  yon  white  plume  on  the  shore  ! 

Safe  crouched  'neath  fern-bush,  dark  and  low, 

Rathmond  had  truly  bent  his  bow, 

And  Montonoc,  with  steady  eye, 

From  'mid  the  oak's  arms,  broad  and  high, 

Took  aim  as  sure ;  his  arrows  sped, 

And  many  a  bloody  foe  is  dead ! 

Wide  tumult  spreads  !    afar  they  fly, 

Each  rustling  brake,  which  meets  the  eye, 

Seems  shrouding  still  some  warrior  there, 

With  bloody  brand  and  eye  of  fire. 

Slow  dropping  from  his  safe  retreat, 

The  prophet  glides  to  Rathmond's  seat ; 

Then  raised  loud  yells  of  various  tone, 

Such  as  are  given  at  victory  won, 


CHICOMICO.  39 

And  Rathmond  joined,  till  long  and  high, 

Rang  the  loud  chorus  to  the  sky ! 

Hark  !  o'er  the  rocks,  the  shrieks  are  answered  wild  ; 

Can  it  be  Echo,  Nature's  darling  child  ? 

No  ;    'tis  a  whoop  of  horror  and  despair, 

Which  knows  no  sympathy,  which  sheds  no  tear ! 

Lo !  on  yon  cliff,  which  frowns  above  the  wave, 
Mark  the  stern  warriors  hovering  o'er  their  grave ! 
'Tis  done  :  the  sullen  bosom  of  the  bay 
Opens  and  closes  o'er  its  sinking  prey ! 

One  hollow  splashing,  as  the  waters  part, 

Sad  welcome  of  the  victim  to  his  bed, 
One  mournful,  shuddering  echo,  and  the  heart 

Turns,  chilled,  at   length,  from    scenes    of  death  and 
dread  ! 

But,  ah  !  like  some  sad  spectre  lingering  near, 
A  form  still  hovers  o'er  the  scene  of  woe  ; 

Does  it  await  its  hour  of  vengeance  here, 
Watching  the  cold  forms  weltering  below  ? 

The  morn  was  dawning  slowly  in  the  east, 

A  few  faint  gleams  of  light  were  bursting  through 

When  the  dread  warriors  sought  the  lake's  calm  breast, 
And  sullen  sunk  amid  its  waters  blue  ! 

That  rude,  wild  phantom  hovering  there, 
Poised  on  the  precipice  midway  in  air, 
Like  some  stern  spirit  of  the  dead, 
Rising  indignant  from  its  bed, 
Was  Ompahaw!  alone,  he  stood, 


40  CHICOMICO. 

Gazing  on  heaven,  on  hill,  and  wood  ! 
His  eye  was  wilder  than  the  eagle's  glare  ; 
Its  glance  was  triumph,  mingled  with  despair  ! 
Far  floated  on  the  breeze  his  plumes  of  red, 
Waving  in  warlike  pride  around  his  head  ; 
His  bow  was  aimless,  bent  within  his  hand ; 
His  scalping-knife  was  gleaming  in  its  band  ; 
And  his  gay  dress,  bedecked  for  battle's  storm, 
Was  wildly  fluttering  round  his  warrior  form  ! 

"  Farewell !  "  he  cried,  "  this  aged  hand 

Draws  the  last  bow-string  of  our  band  ! " 

He  spoke,  and,  sudden  as  the  lightning's  glance, 

The  dart,  one  moment,  o'er  the  waters  danced  ; 

Like  comet's  blaze,  like  shooting  star, 

It  whirled  across  the  waters  far ! 

The  dark  lake  sparkled,  as  the  arrow  fell, 

Foaming,  death's  herald,  a  last,  bright  farewell ! 

Then  from  his  belt  his  tomahawk  he  tore, 

"  Man  shall  ne'er  stain  thy  blade  again  with  gore ! " 

Then  raised  on  high  his  arm,  and  wildly  sung 

The  death-song  of  his  tribe,  till  Nature  rung  ! 

THE   DEATH-SONG. 

"  The  last  of  the  tribe  of  Hillis-ad-joe 

Falls  not  by  the  hand  of  the  bloody  foe ; 

But  they  fled  to  the  heaven  of  peace  in  the  west ; 

The  Great  Spirit  called,  and  they  flew  to   be   blessed 

'•  From  the  dark  rock's  frowning  brow 
They  flew  to  the  deep  below ; 


CHICOMICO.  41 

They  feared  not,  for  the  heaven  of  peace  in  the  west 
Was  smiling  them  welcome,  sweet  welcome  to  rest ! 

"  The  last  of  the  tribe  of  Hillis-ad  joe 

Now  plunges  him  'mid  the  deep  waters  below  ! 

I  come,  Great  Spirit,  take  me  to  thy  rest ! 

Lo !   my  freed  soul  is  winged  towards  the  west ! " 

'Tis  past !  the  rude,  wild  sons  of  Nature  sleep, 
Calm,  undisturbed,  amid  the  waters  deep  ! 
'Tis  past !  the  deed  is  done,  the  tribe  has  gone ! 
Not  one  is  left  to  mourn  it,  no,  not  one ! 

The  last  of  all  that  tribe  of  blood 

Lies  weltering  in  the  sable  flood  ! 

O  !  where  is  yonder  fair-haired  maid  ? 

Say,  whither  hath  the  lone  one  strayed  ? 

'Mid  the  wild  tumult  of  the  strife, 

Where  fled  she  from  the  scalping-knife  ? 

Angels  around  her  spread  their  arm, 

And  shrouded  her  from  fear  and  harm  ! 

But  oh,  what  shriek  rang  shrill  and  clear, 

And  echoed  still  in  Rathmond's  ear  ? 

Why  should  he  note  that  voice,  that  scream  ? 

Was  it  his  fancy,  or  a  dream  ? 

Or  was  it  —  hope  illumed  his  eye, 

And  pointed  to  the  prophecy  ! 

"But  no!  —  'twere  madness  to  return 
To  those  bright  scenes  of  joy,"  he  cried, 

"  Her  bones  are  whitening  in  the  sun, 
Her  ashes  scattered  far  and  wide ! " 


42  CHIC  OM ICO. 

But  where  is  Montonoc  ?  alone, 

Rathmond  is  musing  on  the  strand  ; 
Say,  whither  has  the  prophet  gone  ? 

Why  does  young  Rathmond  heedless  stand  ? 

O  !  he  is  picturing  to  his  vacant  breast 
Those  scenes  of  joy,  those  moments  doubly  blessed, 
Which  youthful  hope  had  promised  should  be  his, 
When  all  was  light,  and  love,  and  cloudless  bliss  ! 
O  !  he  was  sighing  o'er  the  dreary  waste, 

Left  in  that  bosom,  which  had  loved  so  well ! 
O  !  he  was  wishing  for  some  place  of  rest, 

Some  gloomy  cavern,  or  some  lonely  cell1 

But,  ah !  the  voice  of  Montonoc  is  heard, 

Loud  as  the  notes  of  yonder  gloomy  bird  ; 

"  Eagle  ! "  he  cried,  "  the  fatal  charm  hath  passed  ! 

The  blood-red  tribe  have  darkly  sunk  at  last ! 

And,  warrior,  now  I  yield  unto  thy  power 

The  latest  trophy  of  my  life's  last  hour ! 

Deal  with  him  as  thou  wilt,  for  he  is  thine ! 

But  mark !  'twas  I  who  gave,  for  he  was  mine  ! 

Adieu !  I  go ! "    He  closed  his  fiery  eye, 

And  his  stern  spirit  flew  to  heaven  on  high  ! 

The  prisoner  sighed,  arid  mutely  gazed  awhile 

Upon  the  fallen  prophet's  brow  of  toil, 

Then    towards  the    warrior    turned,    dropped   the  dark 

hood, 

And  lo !  Cordelia  before  Rathmond  stood  ! 
1822. 


MISCELLANEOUS    PIECES. 


AN    ACROSTIC. 
THE  MOON. 

Lo !    yonder  rides  the  empress  of  the  night ! 
Unveiled  she  casts  around  her  silver  light ; 
Cease  not,  fair  orb,  thy  slow  majestic  march, 
Resume  again  thy  seat  in  yon  blue  arch. 
E'en  now,  as  weary  of  the  tedious  way, 
Thy  head  on  Ocean's  bosom  thou  dost  lay  ; 
In  his  blue  waves  thou  hid'st  thy  shining  face, 
And  gloomy  darkness  takes  its  vacant  place. 

THE   SUN. 

[IN    CONTINUATION.] 

Darting  his  rays  the  sun  now  glorious  rides, 
And  from  his  path  fell  darkness  quick  divides  ; 
Vapor  dissolves  and  shrinks  at  his  approach. 
It  dares  not  on  his  blazing  path  encroach  ; 
Down  droops  the  flow'ret,  and  his  burning  ray 
Scorches  the  workmen  o'er  the  new-mown  hay. 
O,  lamp  of  Heaven,  pursue  thy  glorious  course, 
Nor  till  gray  twilight,  aught  abate  thy  force. 
1819. 


CHARITY. 

A    VERSIFICATION   OF   PART   OF   THE  THIRTEENTH   CHAPTER  OF   FIRST 
CORINTHIANS. 

THOUGH  I  were  gifted  with  an  angel's  tongue, 
And  voice  like  that  with  which  the  prophets  sung, 
Yet  if  mild  charity  were  not  within, 
'Twere  all  an  impious  mockery  and  sin. 

Though  I  the  gift  of  prophecy  possessed, 
And  faith  like  that  which  Abraham  professed, 
They  all  were  like  a  tinkling  cymbal's  sound, 
If  meek-eyed  charity  did  not  abound. 

Though  I  to  feed  the  poor  my  goods  bestow, 
And  to  the  flames  my  body  I  should  throw, 
Yet  the  vain  act  would  never  cover  sin 
If  heaven-born  charity  were  not  within. 
1820. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  QUEEN  CAROLINE. 

STAR  of  England !  Brunswick's  pride  ! 

Thou  hast  suffered,  drooped,  and  died! 

Adversity,  with  piercing  eye, 

Bade  all  her  arrows  round  thee  fly  ; 

She  marked  thee  from  thy  cradle-bed, 

And  plaited  thorns  around  thy  head !  — 

As  the  moon,  whom  sable  clouds 

Now  brightly  shows  —  now  darkly  shrouds  — 

So  envy,  with  a  serpent's  eye, 

And  slander's  tongue  of  blackest  dye, 

On  thy  pure  name  aspersions  cast, 

And  triumphed  o'er  thy  fame  at  last ! 

But  each  dark  tale  of  guilt  and  shame 

Shall  darker  fly  to  whence  it  came  ! 

A  stranger  in  a  foreign  land, 

Oppressed  beneath  a  tyrant's  hand, 

She  drank  the  bitter  cup  of  woe, 

And  read  Fate's  blackening  volume  through ! 

The  last,  the  bitterest  drop  was  drank, 

The  volume  closed  —  and  all  was  blank ! 


A   HERO'S    DUST. 

AND  does  a  hero's  dust  lie  here? 
Columbia !  gaze  and  drop  a  tear ! 
His  country's  and  the  orphan's  friend, 
See  thousands  o'er  his  ashes  bend  ! 

Among  the  heroes  of  the  age, 
He  was  the  warrior  and  the  sage  ! 
He  left  a  train  of  glory  bright 
Which  never  will  be  hid  in  night. 

The  toils  of  war  and  danger  past, 

He  reaps  a  rich  reward  at  last  ; 

His  pure  soul  mounts  on  cherub's  wings, 

And  now  with  saints  and  angels  sings. 

The  brightest  on  the  list  of  fame 

In  golden  letters  shines  his  name  ; 

Her  trump  shall  sound  it  through  the  world, 

And  the  striped  banner  ne'er  be  furled  ! 

And  every  sex  and  every  age, 
From  lisping  boy  to  learned  sage, 
The  widow  and  her  orphan  son, 
Revere  the  name  of  WASHINGTON  ! 


THE    EVENING    SPIRIT. 

WHEN  the  pale  moon  is  shining  bright, 

And  nought  disturbs  the  gloom  of  night, 

'Tis  then  upon  yon  level  green, 

From  which  St.  Clair's  dark  heights  are  seen, 

The  ^Evening  Spirit  glides  along, 

And  chants  her  melancholy  song; 

Or  leans  upon  a  snowy  cloud, 

And  its  white  skirts  her  figure  shroud. 

By  zephyrs  light  she's  wafted  far, 

And  contemplates  the  northern  star, 

Or  gazes  from  her  silvery  throne, 

On  that  pale  queen,  the  silent  moon. 

Who  is  the  Evening  Spirit  fair, 
That  hovers  o'er  thy  walls,  St.  Clair  ? 
Who  is  it,  that  with  footstep  light, 
Breathes  the  calm  silence  of  the  night  ? 
Ask  the  light  zephyr  who  conveys 
Her  fairy  figure  o'er  the  waves  ; 
Ask  yon  bright  fleecy  cloud  of  night, 
Ask  yon  pale  planet's  silver  light, 
Why  does  the  Evening  Spirit  fair 
Sail  o'er  the  walls  of  dark  St.  Clair  ? 


TO    SCIENCE. 

LET  others  in  false  Pleasure's  court  be  found, 
But  may  I  ne'er  be  whirled  the  giddy  round  ; 
Let  me  ascend  with  Genius'  rapid  flight, 
Till  the  fair  hill  of  Science  meets  my  sight. 

Blest  with  a  pilot  who  my  feet  will  guide, 
Direct  my  way,  whene'er  I  step  aside  ; 
May  one  bright  ray  of  Science  on  me  shine, 
And  be  the  gift  of  learning  ever  mine. 


PLEASURE. 

AWAY!  unstable,  fleeting  Pleasure, 
Thou  troublesome  and  gilded  treasure ; 
When  the  false  jewel  changes  hue, 
There's  naught,  O  man,  that's  left  for  you! 
What  many  grasp  at  with  such  joy, 
Is  but  her  shade,  a  foolish  toy  ; 
She  is  not  found  at  every  court, 
At  every  ball,  and  every  sport, 
But  in  that  heart  she  loves  to  rest, 
That's  with  a  guiltless  conscience  blest. 


THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD. 

THE  shepherd  feeds  his  fleecy  flock  with  care, 
And  mourns  to  find  one  little  lamb  has  strayed ; 

He,  unfatigued,  roams  through  the  midnight  air, 
O'er  hills,  o'er  rocks,  and  through  the  mossy  glade. 

But  when  that  lamb  is  found,  what  joy  is  seen 
Depicted  on  the  careful  shepherd's  face, 

When,  sporting  o'er  the  smooth  and  level  green, 
He  sees  his  favorite  charge  is  in  its  place. 

Thus  the  great  Shepherd  of  his  flock  doth  mourn, 
When  from  his  fold  a  wayward  lamb  has  strayed, 

And  thus  with  mercy  He  receives  him  home, 
When  the  pctor  soul  his  Lord  has  disobeyed. 

There  is  great  joy  among  the  saints  in  heaven, 
When  one  repentant  soul  has  found  its  God, 

For  Christ,  his  Shepherd,  hath  his  ransom  given, 
And  sealed  it  with  his  own  redeeming  blood ! 
4 


LINES, 

WRITTEN    UNDER  THE   PROMISE   OF   REWARD. 

WHENE'ER  the  Muse  pleases  to  grace  my  dull  page, 
At  the  sight  of  reward,  she  flies  off  in  a  rage  ; 
Prayers,  threats,  and  entreaties  I  frequently  try, 
But  she  leaves  me  to  scribble,  to  fret,  and  to  sigh. 

She  torments  me  each  moment,  and  bids  me  go  write, 
And  when  I  obey  her,  she  laughs  at  the  sight ; 
The  rhyme  will  not  jingle,  the  verse  has  no  sense, 
And  against  all  her  insults  I  have  no  defense. 

I  advise  all  my  friends,  who  wish  me  to  write, 
To  keep  their  rewards  and  their  praises  from  sight ; 
So  that  jealous  Miss  Muse  won't  be  wounded  in  pride, 
Nor  Pegasus  rear,  till  I've  taken  my  ride. 


TO  THE 
MEMORY  OF    HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

IN  yon  lone  valley  where  the  cypress  spreads 
Its  gloomy,  dark,  impenetrable  shades, 
The  mourning  Nine,  o'er  White's  untimely  grave 
Murmur  their  sighs,  like  Neptune's  troubled  wave. 

There  sits  Consumption,  sickly,  pale,  and  thin, 
Her  joy  evincing  by  a  ghastly  grin ; 
There  his  deserted  garlands  withering  lie, 
Like  him  they  droop,  like  him  untimely  die. 


STILLING    THE    WAVES. 

"And  He    arose    and    rebuked  the    wind,    and    said    unto    the    sea, 
1  Peace,  be   still ! '  " 

BE  still,  ye  waves,  for  Christ  doth  deign  to  tread 

On  the  rough  bosom  of  your  watery  bed  ! 

Be  not  too  harsh  your  gracious  Lord  to  greet, 

But,  in  soft  murmurs,  kiss  his  holy  feet ; 

'Tis  He  alone  can  calm  your  rage  at  will, 

This  is  his  sacred  mandate,  "  Peace,  be  still ! " 


A  SONG. 

(IN    IMITATION    OF    THE    SCOTCH.) 

WHA  is  it  that  caemeth  sae  blithe  and  sae  swift, 

His  bonnet  is  far  frae  his  flaxen  hair  lift, 

His   dark   een    rolls   gladsome,  i'  the  breeze  floats  his 

plaid, 

And  surely  he  bringeth  nae  news  that  is  sad. 
Ah  !    say,  bonny  stranger,  whence   caemest  thou  now  ? 
The  tiny  drop  trickles  frae  off  thy  dark  brow. 

"I  come,"  said   the  stranger,  "to  spier  my  lued  hame, 
And  see  if  my  Marion  still  were  the  same  ; 
I  hae  been  to  the  battle,  where  thousands  hae  bled, 
And  chieftains  fu'  proud  are  wi'  mean  peasants  laid ; 
I  hae  fought  for  my  country,  for  freedom,  and  fame, 
And  now  I'm  returning  wi'  speed  to  my  hame." 

"  Gude  Spirit  of  Light ! "  ('twas  a  voice  caught  his  ear) 

"And  is  it  me  ain  Norman's  accents  I  hear? 

And  has  the  fierce  Southron  then  left  me  my  child ! 

Or  am  I  wi'  sair,  sair  anxiety  wild  ?  " 

He  turned  to  behold  —  'tis  his  mother  he  sees! 

He  flies  to  embrace  her  —  he  falls  on  his  knees. 

"  O  !  where  is  my  father  ? "  a  tear  trickled  down, 
And  silently  moistened  the  warrior's  cheek  brown ; 


A  SONG.  53 

'  Ah !  sure  my  heart  sinks,  sae  sair  in  my  breast, 
Too  sure  he  frae  all  the  world's  trouble  doth  rest !  " 
'  But  where   is   my  Marion  ? "   his   pale   cheek  turned 

red, 
,\nd  the  glistening  tear  in  his  eye  was  soon  dried. 

'  She  lives  ! "   and   he  knew   'twas   his  Marion's  sweet 

tone,. 

*  She  lives,"  exclaims  Marion,  "  for  Norman  alone  !  " 
He  saw  her :  the  rose  had  fled  far  from  her  cheek, 
But  Norrnan  still  lives  !    his  Marion  is  found ; 
By    the    adamant     chains    of     blithe    Hymen    they're 

bound. 


EXIT    FROM    EGYPTIAN    BONDAGE. 

WHEN  Israel's  sons,  from  cruel  bondage  freed, 
Fled  to  the  land  by  righteous  Heaven  decreed ; 
Insulting  Pharaoh  quick  pursued  their  train, 
E'en  to  the  borders  of  the  troubled  main. 

Affrighted  Israel  stood  alone  dismayed, 
The  foe  behind,  the  sea  before  them  laid  ; 
Around,  the  hosts  of  bloody  Pharaoh  fold, 
And  wave  o'er  wave  the  raging  Red  Sea  rolled. 

But  God,  who  saves  his  chosen  ones  from  harm, 
Stretched  to  their  aid  his  all-protecting  arm, 
And  lo!  on  either  side  the  sea  divides, 
And  Israel's  army  in  its  bosom  hides. 

Safe  to  the  shore  through  watery  walls  they  march, 
And  once  more  hail  kind  Heaven's  aerial  arch ; 
Far,  far  behind,  the  cruel  foe  is  seen, 
And  the  dark  waters  roll  their  march  between. 

The  God  of  vengeance  stretched  his  arm  again, 
And  heaving,  back  recoiled  the  foaming  main  ; 
And  impious  Pharaoh  'neath  the  raging  wave, 
With  all  his  army,  finds  a  watery  grave. 


EXIT  FROM    EGYPTIAN  BONDAGE.  55 

Rejoice,  O  Israel !     God  is  on  your  side, 
He  is  your  champion,  and  your  faithful  guide  ; 
By  day,  a  cloud  is  to  your  footsteps  given  ; 
By  night,  a  fiery  column  towers  to  heaven. 

Then  Israel's  children  marched  by  day  and  night, 
Till  Sinai's  mountain  rose  upon  their  sight: 
There  righteous  Heaven  the  flying  army  stayed, 
And  Israel's  sons  the  high  command  obeyed. 

To  Sinai's  mount  the  trembling  people  came, 

'Twas  wrapped    in    threatening   clouds,  in    smoke,   and 

flame ; 

A  silent  awe  pervaded  all  the  van  ; 
Not  e'en  a  murmur  through  the  army  ran. 

High  Sinai  shook !  dread  thunders  rent  the  air ! 
And  horrid  lightnings  round  its  summit  glare  ! 
'Twas  God's  pavilion,  and  the  black'ning  clouds, 
Dark  hovering  o'er,  his  dazzling  glory  shrouds. 

To  Heaven's  dread  court  the  intrepid  leader  came, 
To  receive  its  mandate  in  the  people's  name ; 
Loud  trumpets  peal  —  the  awful  thunders  roll, 
Transfixing  terrors  in  each  guilty  soul. 

But  lo !  He  comes,  arrayed  in  shining  light, 
And  round  his  forehead  plays  a  halo  bright : 
Heaven's    high    commands    with    trembling    were    re 
ceived, 

Heaven's    high    commands   were    heard,   and  were    be 
lieved. 


THE  LAST  FLOWER  OF  THE  GARDEN. 

THE  last  flower  of  the  garden  was  blooming  alone  ; 
The  last  rays  of  the  sun  on  its  blushing  leaves  shone; 
Still  a  glittering  drop  on  its  bosom  reclined, 
And   a  few  half-blown  buds  'midst  its  leaves  were  en 
twined. 

Say,  lonely  one,  say,  why  lingerest  thou  here  ? 
And  why  on  thy  bosom  reclines  the  bright  tear  ? 
'Tis  the  tear  of  a  zephyr  —  for  summer  'twas  shed, 
And  all  thy  companions  now  withered  and  dead. 

Why  lingerest  thou  here,  when  around  thee  are  strown 
The  flowers  once  so  lovely,  by  Autumn  blast  blown  ? 
Say,  why,  sweetest  floweret,  the  last  of  thy  race, 
Why  lingerest  thou  here  the  lone  garden  to  grace  ? 

As  I  spoke,  a  rough  blast,  sent  by  Winter's  own  hand, 
Whistled  by  me,  and  bent  its  sweet  head  to  the  sand ; 
I  hastened  to  raise  it  —  the  dew-drop  had  fled, 
And  the  once  lovely  flower  was  withered  and  dead. 


ODE   TO    FANCY. 

FANCY,  sweet  and  truant  sprite, 
Steals  on  wings,  as  feathers  light, 
Draws  a  veil  o'er  Reason's  eye, 
And  bids  the  guardian  senses  fly. 

Soft  she  whispers  to  the  mind, 
Come,  and  trouble  leave  behind : 
She  banishes  the  fiend  Despair, 
And  shuts  the  eyes  of  waking  Care. 

Then,  o'er  precipices  dark, 
Where  never  reached  the  wing  of  lark, 
Fearing  no  harm,  she  dauntless  flies, 
Where  rocks  on  rocks  dread  frowning  rise. 

When  Autumn  shakes  his  hoary  head, 
And  scatters  leaves  at  every  tread  ; 
Fancy  stands  with  listening  ear, 
Nor  starts,  when  shrieks  affrighted  Fear. 

There's  music  in  the  rattling  leaf, 
But  'tis  not  for  the  ear  of  Grief; 
There's  music  in  the  wind's  hoarse  moan, 
But  'tis  for  Fancy's  ear  alone. 


THE   BLUSH. 

WHY  that  blush  on  Ella's  cheek, 
What  doth  the  flitting  wanderer  seek  ? 
Doth  passion's  blackening  tempest  scowl, 
To  agitate  my  Ella's  soul  ? 

Return,  sweet  wanderer,  fear  no  harm  ; 
The  heart  which  Ella's  breast  doth  warm, 
Is  virtue's  calm,  serene  retreat : 
And  ne'er  with  passion's  storm  did  beat. 

Return,  and  calmly  rest,  till  love 
Shall  thy  sweet  efficacy  prove ; 
Then  come,  and  thy  loved  place  resume, 
And  fill  that  cheek  with  youthful  bloom. 

A  blush  of  nature  charms  the  heart 
More  than  the  brilliant  tints  of  art ; 
They  please  awhile,  and  please  no  more,  - 
We  hate  the  things  we  loved  before. 

But  no  unfading  tints  were  those 
Which  to  my  Ella's  cheek  arose : 
They  please  the  raptured  heart,  and  fly 
Before  they  pall  the  gazing  eye. 


THE  BLUSH.  59 

'Twas  not  the  blush  of  guilt  or  shame 
Which  o'er  my  Ella's  features  came  : 
'Twas  she  who  fed  the  poor  distressed, 
'Twas  she  the  indigent  had  blessed ; 

For  her  their  prayers  to  heaven  were  raised, 
On  her  the  grateful  people  gazed  ; 
'Twas  when  the  blush  suffused  her  cheek, 
Which  told  what  words  can  never  speak. 


A   SONG. 

TUNE,  —  Mrs.  Robinson's  Farewell. 

TELL  me  not  of  joys  departed, 

Or  of  childhood's  happy  hour ! 
When  unconsciously  I  sported, 

Fresh  as  morning's  dewy  flower! 

Tell  me  not  of  fair  hopes  blasted, 

Or  of  unrequited  love ! 
Tell  me  not  of  fortune  wasted, 

Or  the  web  which  Fate  hath  wove! 

One  fond  wish  I  long  have  cherished, 
I  have  twined  it  round  my  heart ! 

While  all  other  hopes  have  perished, 
I  with  that  could  never  part. 

On  life's  troubled,  stormy  ocean 
That  bright  star  still  shone  serene  ? 

To  that  star,  my  heart's  devotion 
Rose,  at  morning  and  at  e'en  ! 

And  the  hope  that  led  me  onward, 

Like  a  beacon  shining  bright, 
Was  —  that  when  this  form  had  mouldered, 
I  might  wake  to  realms  of  light ! 


A   SONG. 


61 


Wake  to  bliss  —  that  changes  never  ! 

Wake  no  more  to  hope  or  fear  ! 
Wake  to  joys  that  bloom  forever, 

Withered  by  no  sigh,   no  tear  ! 


ON  AN  AEOLIAN  HARP. 

WHAT  heavenly  music  strikes  my  ravished  ear, 
So  soft,  so  melancholy,  and  so  clear  ? 
And  do  the  tuneful  Nine  then  touch  the  lyre, 
To  fill  each  bosom  with  poetic  fire? 

Or  does  some  angel  strike  the  sounding  strings, 
Catching  from  echo  the  wild  note  he  sings  ? 
But  hark !  another  strain,  how  sweet,  how  wild ! 
Now  rising  high,  now  sinking  low  and  mild. 

And  tell  me  now,  ye  spirits  of  the  wind, 
O,  tell  me  where  those  artless  notes  to  find ! 
So  lofty  now,  so  loud,  so  sweet,  so  clear, 
That  even  angels  might  delighted  hear  ! 

But  hark  !  those  notes  again  majestic  rise, 
As  though  some  spirit,  banished  from  the  skies, 
Had  hither  fled  to  charm  yEolus  wild, 
And  teach  him  other  music  sweet  and  mild. 

Then  hither  fly,  sweet  mourner  of  the  air, 
Then  hither  fly,  and  to  my  harp  repair ; 
At  twilight  chant  the  melancholy  lay, 
And  charm  the  sorrows  of  thy  soul  away. 


THE  COQUETTE. 

I  HAE  nae  sleep,  I  hae  nae  rest, 

My  Ellen's  lost  for  aye, 
My  heart  is  sair  and  much  distressed, 

I  surely  soon  must  die. 

I  canna  think  o'  wark  at  a', 

My  eyes  still  wander  far, 
I  see  her  neck  like  driven  snaw, 

I  see  her  flaxen  hair. 

Sair,  sair,  I  begged ;  she  would  na'  hear, 

She  proudly  turned  awa', 
Unmoved  she  saw  the  trickling  tear, 

Which,  spite  o'  me,  would  fa'. 

She  acted  weel  a  conqueror's  part, 

She  triumphed  in  my  woe, 
She  gracefu'  waved  me  to  depart, 

I  tried,  but  could  na'  go. 

"Ah  why,"  (distractedly  I  cried,) 

"Why  yield  me  to  despair? 
Bid  lingering  Hope  resume  her  sway, 

To  ease  my  heart  sae  sair." 


64  THE   COQUETTE. 

She  scornfu'  smiled,  and  bade  me  go ! 

This  roused  my  dormant  pride  ; 
I  craved  nae  boon  —  I  took  nae  leuk, 

"  Adieu  !  "  I  proudly  cried. 

I  fled  !  nor  Ellen  hae  I  seen, 

Sin'  that  too  fatal  day : 
My  "bosom's  laird"  sits  heavy  here, 

And  Hope's  fled  far  away. 

Care,  darkly  brooding,  bodes  a  storm, 
I'm  Sorrow's  child  indeed  ; 

She  stamps  her  image  on  my  form, 
I  wear  the  mourning  weed ! 


ON   THE  DEATH   OF  AN   INFANT.     . 

SWEET  child,  and  hast  thou  gone,  forever  fled  ? 
Low  lies  thy  body  in  its  grassy  bed ; 
But  thy  freed  soul  swift  bends  its  flight  through  air, 
Thy  heavenly  Father's  gracious  love  to  share. 

And  now,  methinks,  I  see  thee  clothed  in  white, 
Mingling  with  saints,  like  thee,  celestial  bright. 
Look  down,  sweet  angel,  on  thy  friends  below, 
And  mark  their  trickling  tears  of  silent  woe. 

Look  down  with  pity  in  thy  infant  eye, 

And  view  the  friends  thou  left,  for  friends  on  high. 

Methinks  I  see  thee  leaning  from  above, 

To  whisper,  to  those  friends,  of  peace  and  love : 

"Weep  not  for  me,  for  I  am  happy  still, 
And  murmur  not  at  our  great  Father's  will.; 
Let  not  this  blow  your  trust  in  Jesus  shake, 
Our  Saviour  gave,  and  it  is  his  to  take. 

"  Once  you  looked  forward  to  life's  opening  day, 
The  scene  was  bright,  and  pleasant  seemed  the  way ; 
Hope  drew  the  picture,  Fancy,  ever  near, 
Colored  it  bright  —  'tis  blotted  with  a  tear. 

5 


66  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

"  Then  let  that  tear  be  Resignation's  child  ; 
Yielding  to  Heaven's  high  will,  be  calm,  be  mild; 
Weep  for  your  child  no  more,  she's  happy  still, 
And  murmur  not  at  your  great  Father's  will." 


REFLECTIONS, 

ON  CROSSING  LAKE  CHAMPLAIN   IN  THE  STEAMBOAT  "  PHCENIX." 

ISLET*  on  the  lake's  calm  bosom, 
In  thy  breast  rich  treasures  lie ; 

Heroes  !  there  your  bones  shall  moulder, 
But  your  fame  shall  never  die. 

Islet  on  the  lake's  calm  bosom, 

Sleep  serenely  in  thy  bed  ; 
Brightest  gem  our  waves  can  boast, 

Guardian  angel  of  the  dead  ! 

Calm  upon  the  waves  recline, 
Till  great  Nature's  reign  is  o'er ; 

Until  old  and  swift-winged  time 
Sinks,  and  order  is  no  more. 

Then  thy  guardianship  shall  cease, 

Then  shall  rock  thy  aged  bed  ; 
And  when  Heaven's  last  trump  shall  sound, 

Thou  shalt  yield  thy  noble  dead  ! 

*  Crab  Island ;  on  which  were  buried  the  remains  of  the  sailors  who 
fell  in  the  action  of  September  nth,  1814. 


THE    STAR   OF   LIBERTY. 

THERE  shone  a  gem  on  England's  crown, 

Bright  as  yon  star ; 
Oppression  marked  it  with  a  frown, 
He  sent  his  darkest  spirit  down, 
To  quench  the  light  that  round  it  shone, 

Blazing  afar. 

But  Independence  met  the  foe, 
And  laid  the  swift-winged  demon  low. 

A  second  messenger  was  sent, 

Dark  as  the  night ; 
On  his  dire  errand  swift  he  went, 
But  Valor's  bow  was  truly  bent, 
Justice  her  keenest  arrow  lent, 

And  sped  its  flight ; 

Then  fell  the  impious  wretch,  and  Death 
Approached,  to  take  his  withering  breath. 

Valor  then  took,  with  hasty  hand, 

The  gem  of  light ; 
He  flew  to  seek  some  other  land, 
He  flew  to  'scape  oppression's  hand, 
He  knew  there  was  some  other  strand, 

More  bright ; 

And  as  he  swept  the  fields  of  air, 
He  found  a  country,  rich  and  fair. 


THE  STAR   OF  LIBERTY.  69 

Upon  its  breast  the  star  he  placed, 

The  star  of  liberty : 

Bright,  and  more  bright  the  meteor  blazed, 

The  lesser  planets  stood  amazed, 

Astonished  mortals,  wondering,  gazed, 

Looking  on  fearfully. 

That  star  shines  brightly  to  this  day, 

On  thy  calm  breast,  America  ! 


ON  SOLITUDE. 

SWEET  Solitude,  I  love  thy  silent  shade  ! 

I  love  to  pause  when  in  life's  mad  career, 
To  view  the  checkered  path  before  me  laid, 

And  turn  to  meditate  —  to  hope,  to  fear. 

'Tis  sweet  to  draw  the  curtain  on  the  world, 
To  shut  out  all  its  tumult,  all  its  care, — 

Leave  the  dread  vortex,  in  which  all  are  whirled, 
And  to  thy  shades  of  twilight  calm  repair. 

Yet,  Solitude,  the  hand  divine,  which  made 
The  earth,  the  ocean,  and  the  realms  of  air, 

Pointed  how  far  thy  kingdom  should  extend, 

And  bade  thee  pause,  for  He  had  fixed  thee  there. 

Then,  when  disgusted  with  the  world  and  man, 
When  sick  of  pageantry,  of  pomp,  and  pride, 

To  thee  I'll  fly,  in  thee  I'll  seek  relief, 

And  hope  to  find  that  calm  the  world  denied. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SODOM  AND  GOMORRAH. 

"  And  he  looked  towards  Sodom  and  Gomorrah,  and  lo !  the  smoke  of 
the  country  went  up  as  the  smoke  of  a  furnace." 

O  DREAD  was  the  night,  when  o'er  Sodom's  wide  plain 

The  fire  of  heaven  descended ; 

For   all   that   then    bloomed    shall    ne'er   bloom    there 
again, 

For  man  hath  his  Maker  offended. 

The  midnight  of  terror  and  woe  hath  passed  by, 

The  death-spirit's  pinions  are  furled  ; 
But  the  sun,  as  it  beams  clear  and  brilliant  on  high,  • 

Hides  from  Sodom's  dark,  desolate  world. 

Here  lies  but  that  glassy,  that  death-stricken  lake, 
As  in  mockery  of  what  had  been  there ; 

The  wild  bird  flies  far  from  the  dark  nestling  brake, 
Which  waves  its  scorched  arms  in  the  air. 

In  that  city  the  wine-cup  was  brilliantly  flowing, 

Joy  held  her  high  festival  there ; 
Not  a  fond  bosom  dreaming  (in  luxury  glowing) 

Of  the  close  of  that  night  of  despair. 


7*  SODOM  AND    GOMORRAH. 

For    the     bride,    her    handmaiden    the     garland    was 
wreathing, 

At  the  altar  the  bridegroom  was  waiting, 
But  vengeance   impatiently  round  them  was  breathing, 

And  death  at  that  shrine  was  their  greeting. 

But  the  wine-cup  is  empty,  and  broken  it  lies, 

The  lip  which  it  foamed  for,  is  cold  ; 
For  the  red  wing  of  Death  o'er  Gomorrah  now  flies, 

And  Sodom  is  wrapped  in  its  fold. 

The  bride  is  wedded,  but  the  bridegroom  is  Death, 
With  his  cold,  damp,  and  grave-like  hand  ; 

Her  pillow  is  ashes,  the  slime-weed  her  wreath, 
Heaven's  flames  are  her  nuptial  band. 

And  near  to  that  cold,  that  desolate  sea 

Whose  fruits  are  to  ashes  now  turned, 
Not  a  fresh-blown  flower,  not  a  budding  tree, 

Now  blooms  where  those  cities  were  burned. 


THE    WEE   FLOWER    OF   THE   HEATHER. 

THOU  pretty  wee  flower,  humble  thing, 
Thou  brightest  jewel  of  the  heath, 

Which  waves  at  zephyr's  lightest  wing, 
And  trembles  at  the  softest  breath  ; 

Thou  lovely  bud  of  Scotia's  land, 
Thou  pretty  fragrant  burnie  gem, 

By  whispering  breezes  thou  art  fanned, 
And  greenest  leaves  entwine  thy  stem. 

No  raging  tempest  beats  thee  down, 
Or  finds  thee  in  thy  safe  retreat  ; 

By  no  rough  wintry  winds  thou'rt  blown, 
Safe  seated  at  the  dark  rock's  feet. 


ON  READING  A  FRAGMENT  CALLED  "THE 
FLOWER  OF  THE  FOREST." 

SING  on,  sweetest  songster  the  woodland  can  boast  ; 

Sing  on,  for  it  charms,  though  it  sorrows  my  breast ; 
The  strains,  though  so  mournful,  shall  never  be  lost, 

Till  this  throbbing  bosom  has  murmured  to  rest. 

The  sweet  Flower  of  the  Forest  on  memory's  page 
Shall  bloom  undecaying  while  life  lingers  near, 

Unhurt  by  the  storms  which  around  it  shall  rage, 
By  sorrow's  sigh  fanned,  and  bedewed  by  a  tear. 


TO  MAMMA. 

Thy  love  inspires  the  Story-Teller's  tongue. 
To  tales  of  hearts  with  disappointment  wrung, 
Thy  love  inspires  ;  fresh  flows  the  copious  stream, 
And  what's  not  true,  let  fruitful  fancy  dream. 

THE  STORY-TELLER. 

THE  PARTING  OF  DECOURCY  AND  WILHELMINE. 

Lo !  enthroned  on  golden  clouds, 

Sinks  the  monarch  of  the  day ; 
Now  yon  hill  his  glory  shrouds, 

And  his  brilliance  fades  away. 

But  as  it  fled,  one  ling'ring  beam 

Played  o'er  yon  spire,  which  points  on  high ; 

It  cast  one  bright,  one  transient  gleam, 
Then  hastened  from  the  deep'ning  sky. 

Lo  !  the  red-tipped  clouds  remain 

But  to  tell  of  glories  past ; 
Mark  them  gathering  o'er  the  plain, 

Mark  them  fade  away  at  last. 

The  lake  is  calm,  the  breeze  is  still, 

Nor  dares-  to  whisper  o'er  a  leaf; 
And  nothing  save  the  murm'ring  rill, 

Can  give  the  vacant  ear  relief. 


76        PARTING  OF  DECOURCY  AND    WILHELMINE. 

Around  yon  hawthorn  in  the  vale, 

White  garments  float  like  evening  mist : 

Tis  Wilhelmine;  and  cold  and  pale, 
A  simple  marble  stone  she  kissed. 

She  knelt  her  by  a  lowly  tomb, 

And  wreathed  its  urn  anew  with  flowers  ; 

She  taught  the  white  rose  there  to  bloom,     . 
And  watered  it  with  sorrow's  showers. 

Like  raven's  wing,  her  glossy  hair 

In  ringlets  floated  on  the  gale, 
Or  hung  upon  a  brow  as  fair 

As  snow-curl  crested  in  the  vale. 

And  her  dark  eye,  which  rolls  so  wild, 
Once  brightly  sparkled  with  hope's  light, 

For  Wilhelmine  was  pleasure's  child, 
When  fortune's  smiles  shone  sweetly  bright. 


Decourcy  loved  —  the  morn  was  clear, 
And  fancy  promised  bliss ; 

For  now  the  happy  hour  was  near, 
Which  made  the  maiden  his. 

And  Wilhelmine  sat  smiling  sweet 
Beneath  the  spreading  tree  ; 

Her  nimble  foot  was  quick  to  meet, 
Her  glancing  eye  to  see. 


PARTING   OF  DECOURCY  AND    WILHELMINE.         77 

Decourcy  came  upon  his  steed, 

His  brow  and  cheek  were  pale  ; 
"  Speak  —  speak,  Decourcy ! "  cried  the  maid, 
"Tis  sure  a  dreadful  tale." 

"  My  love,  my  Wilhelmine,"  cried  he, 

"  Be  calm  and  fear  thee.  not ; 
In  battle  I  will  think  on  thee, 

And  O,  forget  me  not. 

"  Adieu  !  "  he  clasped  her  to  his  breast, 

And  kissed  the  trickling  tear 
Which  'neath  her  half-closed  eyelids  prest 

And  ling'ring  glistened  there. 

He  gazed  upon  that  death-like  face, 

So  beautiful  before  ; 
He  gazed  upon  that  shrine  of  grace, 

And  dared  to  gaze  no  more. 

He  trembled,  pressed  his  burning  brow, 

And  closed  his  aching  eyes  : 
His  limbs  refuse  their  office  now, 

The  maid  before  him  lies. 

But  hark !  the  trumpet's  warlike  sound 

Echoes  from  hill  to  vale ; 
He  caught  the  maiden  from  the  ground, 

And  kissed  her  forehead  pale. 

Why  should  Decourcy  linger  there, 
When  the  bugle  bids  him  speed  ? 


78        PARTING    OF  DECOURCY  AND    WILHELMINE. 

One  long  last  look  of  calm  despair, 
And  he  springs  upon  his  steed ; 

He  strikes  the  sting  of  his  bloody  spur 

In  his  foaming  courser's  side, 
And  he  gallops  on  where  the  wave  of  war 

Rolls  on  with  its  bursting  tide. 

Whose  was  the  sword  that  flashed  so  "bright, 

Like  the  flaming  brand  of  heaven  ? 
And  whose  the  plume,  that  from  morn  till  night 

Was  a  star  to  the  hopeless  given  ? 

'Twas  thine,  ^-Decourcy !  that  terrible  sword 

Hath  finished  its  work  of  death ; 
But  the  hand  which  raised  it  on  high  is  lowered 

To  the  damp  green  earth  beneath. 

The  sun  went  down,  and  its  parting  ray 

Smiled  sorrow  across  the  earth, 
The  light  breeze  moaned  —  then  died  away, 

And  the  stars  rose  up  in,  mirth. 

And  the  timid  moon  looked  down  with  a  smile 

On  the  blood-stained  battle  ground, 
And  the  groans  of  the  wounded  rose  up  the  while 

With  a  sad,  heart-rending  sound, — 

While  the  spectre-form  of  some  grief-worn  man 

Steals  slowly  and  silently  by, 
Each  corpse  to  note — each  face  to  scan, 

For  his  friend  on  that  field  doth  lie. 


PARTING    OF  DECOURCY  AND    WILHELMINE.         79 

But  whose  is  the  figure  dimly  seen 

By  the  trembling  moonbeam's  light  ? 
'Tis  the  form  of.  the  weeping  Wilhelmine, 

And  she  kneels  by  the  slaughtered  knight. 

Weep  not  for  the  dead,  for  he  died  'mid  the   din, 

And  the  rapturous  shouts  of  strife, 
And  the  bright  sword  hath  ushered  his  soul  within 

The  portals  of  future  life. 

Weep  not  for  the  dead !  who  would  not  die 

As  that  gallant  soldier  died  ? 
With  a  field  of  glory  whereon  to  lie, 

And  his  foeman  dead  beside. 

A  year  passed  by,  and  a  simple  tomb 

Rose  up  'neath  a  willow  tree ; 
'Twas  decked  with  flowers  in  vernal  bloom 

As  fresh  as  flowers  could  be ; 

And  oft  as  the  twilight's  dusky  gleam 

O'er  the  scene  was  gently  stealing, 
The  form  of  the  sorrowful  maid  was  seen 

By  the  grave  of  her  lover  kneeling. 

But  wild  is  the  glance  of  her  dove-like  eye, 
And  her  cheek,  O  how  pale  and  fair 

And  the  mingled  smile,  and  the  deep-drawn  sigh, 
Show  that  reason's  no  longer  there. 


8o        PARTING    OF  DECOURCY  AND    WILHELMINE. 

Another  year  passed,  and  another  grave 
'Neath  the  willow  tree  is  seen  ; 

By  the  side  of  her  lover,  Decourcy  the  brave, 
Lay  the  corpse  of  Wilhelmine. 


AN    ADDRESS    TO    MY    MUSE. 

WHY,  gentle  Muse,  wilt  thou  disdain 

To  lend  thy  strains  to  me? 
Why  do  I  supplicate  in  vain 

And  bow  my  heart  to  thee  ? 

O !  teach  me  how  to  touch  the  lyre, 
To  tune  the  trembling  chord  ; 

Teach  me  to  fill  each  heart  with  fire, 
And  melting  strains  afford. 

Sweep  but  thy  hand 'across  the  string, 

The  woodlands  echo  round, 
And  mortals  wond'ring,  as  you  sing, 

Delighted  catch  each  sound. 

Enchanted  when  thy  voice  I  hear, 

I  drop  each  earthly  care; 
T  feel  as  wafted  from  the  world 

To  Fancy's  realms  of  air. 

Then  as  I  wander,  plaintive  sing, 

And  teach  me  every  strain ; 
Teach  me  to  touch  the  trembling  string 

Which  now  I  strike  in  vain.. 
6 


THE  MERMAID. 

MAID  of  the  briny  wave  and  raven  lock, 

Whose  bed 's  the  sea- weed,  and  whose  throne 's  the  rock, 

Tell  me,  what  fate  compels  thee  thus  to  ride 

O'er  the  tempestuous  ocean's  foaming  tide  ? 

Art  thou  some  naiad,  who,  at  Neptune's  nod, 
Flies  to  obey  the  mandate  of  that  god  ? 
Art  thou  the  siren,  who,  when  night  draws  on, 
Chantest  thy  farewell  to  the  setting  sun? 

Or,  leaning  on  thy  wave-encircled  rock, 
Twining  with  lily  hand  thy  raven  lock, 
Dost  thou,  in  accents  wild,  proclaim  the  storm 
Which  soon  shall  wrap  the  unwary  sailor's  form  ? 

Or  dost  thou  round  the  wild  Charybdis  play, 
To  warn  the  seaman  from  his  dangerous  way  ? 
Or,  shrieking  midst  the  tempest,  chant  the  dirge 
Of  shipwrecked  sailors,  buried  in  the  surge? 

Tell  me,  mysterious  being,  what  you  are  ? 
So  wild,  so  strange,  so  lonely,  yet  so  fair ! 
Tell  me,  O  tell  me,  why  you  sit  alone, 
Singing  so  sweetly  on  the  wave-washed  stone  ? 

And  tell  me,  that  if  e'er  I  find  my  grave 
Beneath  the  ocean's  wildly  troubled  wave, 
That  thou  with  weeds  wilt  strew  my  watery  bed, 
And  hush  the  roaring  billows  o'er  my  head. 

1823. 


ON   THE    BIRTH   OF    A   SISTER. 

SWEET  babe,  I  cannot  hope  thou  wilt  be  freed 
From  woes,  to  all  since  earliest  time  decreed  ; 
But  mayest  thou  be  with  resignation  blessed, 
To  bear  each  evil,  howsoe'er  distressed. 

May  Hope  her  anchor  lend  amid  the  storm, 
And  o'er  the  tempest  rear  her  angel  form ! 
May  sweet  Benevolence,  whose  words  are  peace, 
To  the  rude  whirlwinds  softly  whisper,  "  Cease ! " 

And  may  Religion,  Heaven's -own  darling  child, 
Teach  thee  at  human  cares  and  griefs  to  smile  ; 
Teach  thee  to  look  beyond  this  world  of  woe, 
To  Heaven's  high  fount,  whence  mercies  ever  flow. 

And  when  this  vale  of  tears  is  safely  passed, 
When  Death's  dark  curtain  shuts  the  scene  at  last, 
May  thy  freed  spirit  leave  this  earthly  sod, 
And  fly  to  seek  the  bosom  of  thy  God. 


A   DREAM. 

METHOUGHT  (unwitting  how  the  place  I  gained) 

I  rested  on  a  fleecy,  floating  cloud 

Far  o'er  the  earth,  the  stars,  the  sun,  the  heavens, 

And  slowly  wheeled  around  the  dread  expanse ! 

Sudden,  methought,  a  trumpet's  voice  was  heard, 

Pealing  with  long,  loud,  death-awakening  note,  • 

Such  note  as  mortal  man  but  once  may  hear ! 

At  that  heart-piercing  summons,  there  arose 

A  crowd  fast  pouring  from  the  troubled  earth  ! 

The' earth,  that  blackened  speck,  alone  seemed    moved 

By  the  dread  note,  which  rushed, 

Like  pent-up  whirlwinds,  round  Heaven's  azure   vault; 

All  other  worlds,  all  other  twinkling  stars 

Stood  mute  —  stood  motionless  ; 

Their  time  had  not  yet  come. 

Yet,  ever  and  anon,  they  seemed  to  bow 

Before  the. dread  tribunal; 

And  the  fiery  comet,  as  it  blazed  along, 

Stopped   in   its    midway   course,   as    conscious  of    the 

power 

Whicli  onward  ever,  ever  had  impelled : 
No  other  planet  moved,  none  seemed  convulsed, 
Save  the  dim  orb  of  earth ! 

Forth  eddying  rushed  a  crowd,  confused  and  dark, 
Like  a  volcano,  muttering  and  subdued  ! 
There  came  no  sound  distinct,  but  sighs  and  groans 


A  DREAM.  85 

And  murmurings  half  suppressed,  half  uttered ! 

All  eyes  were  upward  turned  in  wonder  and  in  fear, 

But  soon,  methought,  they  onward  rolled 

To  the  dread  High  One's  bar, 

As    the    tumultuous    billows    rush    murmuring    to    the 

shore, 

And  all  distinctions  dwindled  into  naught. 
Upward  I  cast  my  eyes  ; 
High  on  an  azure  throne,  begirt  with  clouds, 
Sate  the  dread  Indescribable ! 
He  raised  his  sceptre,  waved  it  o'er  the  crowd, 
And  all  was  calm  and  silent  as  the  grave  ! 
He  rose ;  the  cherubs  flapped  their  snowy  wings  ! 
On  came  the  rushing  wind  —  the  throne  was  moved, 
And  flew  like  gliding  swan  above  the  crowd ! 
Sudden  it  stopped  o'er  the  devoted  world  ! 
The  Judge  moved  forward  'mid  his  sable  shroud, 
Raised  his  strong  arm  with  rolling  thunders  clothed, 
Held  forth  a  vial  filled  with  wrathful  fire, 
Then  poured  the  contents  on  the  waiting  globe ! 
Sudden  the  chain,  which  bound  it  to  God's  throne, 
Snapped  with  a  dire  explosion  ! 
On  wheeled  the  desolate  —  the  burning  orb 
Swift  through  the  heavens  ! 

Down,  down  it  plunged ;  then  shot  across  the  expanse, 
Blazing  through  .realms  where  light  had  never  pierced! 
Down,  down  it  plunged,  fast  wheeling  from  above, 
Shooting  forth  flames,  and  sparks,  and  burning  brands, 
Trailing  from  shade  to  shade 
Then  bounding,  blazing  brighter  than  before, 
It  plunged  extinguished  in  the  chaotic  gulf! 


TO   MY   SISTER. 

WHEN  evening  spreads  her  shades  around, 
And  darkness  fills  the  arch  of  heaven  ; 

When  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound 
To  Fancy's  sportive  ear  is  given ; 

When  the  broad  orb  of  heaven  is  bright, 
And  looks  around  with  golden  eye ; 

When  Nature,  softened  by  her  light, 
Seems  calmly,  solemnly  to  lie  ; 

Then,  when  our  thoughts  are  raised  above 
This  world,  and  all  this  world  can  give, 

O  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love, 
And  tears  of  gratitude  receive. 

The  song  which  thrills  my  bosom's  core, 
And,  hovering,  trembles,  half  afraid ; 

O  sister,  sing  the  song  once  more 
Which  ne'er  for  mortal  ear  was  made. 

'Twere  almost  sacrilege  to  sing 

Those  notes  amid  the  glare  of  day ; 

Notes  borne  by  angels'  purest  wing, 
And  wafted  by  their  breath  away. 


TO  MY  SISTER. 


When  sleeping  in  my  grass-grown  bed, 
Shouldst  thou  still  linger  here  above, 

Wilt  thou  not  kneel  beside  my  head, 
And,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love  ? 


CUPID'S  BOWER. 

AM  I  in  fairy-land  ?  or  tell  me,  pray, 
To  what  love-lighted  bower  I've  found  my  way  ? 
Sure  luckless  wight  was  never  more  beguiled 
In  woodland  maze,  or  closely  tangled  wild. 

And  is  this  Cupid's  realm  ?  if  so,  good-by  ! 
Cupid,  and  Cupid's  votaries,  I  fly ; 
No  offering  to  his  altar  do  I  bring, 
No  bleeding  heart  —  or  hymeneal  ring. 

What  .though  he  proudly  marshals  his  array 
Of  conquered  hearts,  still  bleeding  in  his  way, 
Of  sighs,  of  kisses  sweet,  of  glances  sly, 
Playing  around  some  darkly  beauteous  eye  ? 

What  though  the  rose  of  beauty,  opening  wide, 
Blooms  but  for  him,  and  fans  his  lordly  pride? 
What  though  his  garden  boasts  the  fairest  flower 
That  ever  dew-drop  kissed,  or  pearly  shower? 

Still,  Cupid,  I'm  no  votary  to  thee  ; 
Thy  torch  of  light  will  never  blaze  for  me ; 
I  ask  no  glance  of  thine,  I  ask  no  sigh  ; 
I  brave  thy  fury,  and  thus  boldly  fly  ! 


CUPID'S  BOWER. 


89 


Adieu,  then,  and  for  evermore,  adieu  ! 
Ye  poor  entangled  ones,  farewell  to  you ! 
And,  O  ye  powers  !  a  hapless  mortal  prays 
For  guidance  through  this  labyrinthine  maze. 


THE    FAMILY    TIME-PIECE. 

FRIEND  of  my  heart,  thou  monitor  of  youth, 
Well  do  I  love  thee,  dearest  child  of  truth, 
Though  many  a  lonely  hour  thy  whisperings  low 
Have  made  sad  chorus  to  the  notes  of  woe. 

Or  'mid  the  happy  hour  which  joyful  flew, 
Thou  still  wert  faithful,  still  unchanged,  still  true  ; 
Or  when  the  task  employed  my  infant  mind, 
Oft  have  I  sighed  to  see  thee  lag  behind; 

And  watched  thy  finger,  with  a  youthful  glee, 
When  it  had  pointed,  silently,  "  Be  free : " 
Thou  wert  my  mentor  through  each  passing  year; 
'Mid  pain  or  pleasure,  thou  wert  ever  near. 

And  when  the  wings  of  time  unnoticed  flew, 
I  paused,  reflected,  wondered,  turned  to  you  ; 
Paused  in  my  heedless  round,  to  mark  thy  hand, 
Pointing  to  conscience,  like  a  magic  wand  ; 

To  watch  thee  stealing  on  thy  silent  way, 

Silent,  but  sure,  time's  pinions  cannot  stay  ; 

How  many  hours  of  pleasure,  hours  of  pain, 

When  smiles  were  bright'ning  round  affliction's  train  ? 

How  many  hours  of  poverty  and  woe, 
Which  taught  cold  drops  of  agony  to  flow  ? 


THE  FAMILY  TIME-PIECE.  91 

How  many  hours  of  war,  of  blood,  of  death, 
Which  added  laurels  to  the  victor's  wreath  ? 


How  many  deep-drawn  sighs  thy  hand  hath  told, 
And    dimmed    the   smile,    and    dried    the    tear    which 

rolled 

When  the  loud  cannon  spoke  the  voice  of  war, 
And  death  and  bloodshed  whirled  their  crimson  car  ? 

When  the  proud  banner,  waving  in  the  breeze, 
Had  welcomed  war,  and  bade  adieu  to  peace, 
Thy  faithful  finger  traced  the  wing  of  time, 
Pointed  to  earth,  and  then  to  heaven  sublime. 

Unmoved  amid  the  carnage  of  the  world, 
When  thousands  to  eternity  were  hurled, 
Thy  head  was  reared  aloft,  truth's  chosen  child, 
Beaming  serenely  through  the  troubled  wild. 

Friend  of  my  youth,  ere  from  its  mould'ring  clay 
My  joyful  spirit  wings  to  heaven  its  way, 
O  may'st  thou  watch  beside  my  aching  head, 
And  tell  how  fast  time  flits  with  feathered  tread. 


ON  THE 
EXECUTION    OF    MARY    QUEEN    OF    SCOTS. 

TOUCH  not  the  heart,  for  Sorrow's  voice 
Will  mingle  in  the  chorus  wild ; 

When  Scotland  weeps,  canst  thou  rejoice? 
No :  rather  mourn  her  murdered  child. 

Sing  how  on  Carberry's  mount  of  blood, 
'Mid  foes  exulting  in  her  doom, 

The  captive  Mary  fearless  stood, 
A  helpless  victim  for  the  tomb. 

Justice  and  Mercy,  'frighted,  fled, 

And  shrouded  was  Hope's  beacon  blaze, 

When,  like  a  lamb  to  slaughter  led, 
Poor  Mary  met  her  murderers'  gaze. 

Calm  was  her  eye  as  yon  dark  lake, 

.  And  changed  her  once  angelic  form ; 
No  sigh  was  heard  the  pause  to  break, 
That  awful  pause  before  the  storm. 

O  draw  the  veil,  'twere  shame  to  gaze 

Upon  the  bloody  tragedy  ; 
But  lo !  a  brilliant  halo  plays 

Around  the  hill  of  Carberry. 


EXECUTION  OF  MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS.  93 

'Tis  done  —  and  Mary's  soul  has  flown 
Beyond  this  scene  of  blood  and  death  ; 

'Tis  done  —  the  lovely  saint  has  gone 
To  claim  in  heaven  a  thornless  wreath. 

But  as  Elijah,  when  his  car 

Wheeled  on  towards  heaven  its  path  of  light, 
Dropped  on  his  friend,  he  left  afar, 
His  mantle,  like  a  meteor  bright; 

So  Mary,  when  her  spirit  flew 

Far  from  this  world,  so  sad,  so  weary, 

A  crown  of  fame  immortal  threw 
Around  the  brow  of  Carberry. 


RUTH'S  ANSWER  TO  NAOMI. 

ENTREAT  me  not,  I  must  not  hear; 
Mark  but  this  sorrow-beaming  tear  ; 
Thy  answer's  written  deeply  now 
On  this  warm  cheek  and  clouded  brow ; 
'Tis  gleaming  o'er  this  eye  of  sadness, 
Which  only  near  thee  sparkles  gladness. 

The  hearts  most  dear  to  us  are  gone, 
And  thou  and  /  are  left  alone ; 
Where'er  thou  wanderest,  I  will  go, 
I'll  follow  thee  through  joy  or  woe  ; 
Shouldst  thou  to  other  countries  fly, 
Where'er  thou  lodgest,  there  will  I. 

Thy  people  shall  my  people  be, 
And  to  thy  God  I'll  bend  the  knee  ; 
Whither  thou  fliest,  will  I  fly, 
And  where  thou  diest,  I  will   die  ; 
And  the  same  sod  which  pillows  thee 
Shall  freshly,  sweetly  bloom  for  me. 


DAVID   AND   JONATHAN. 

ON  the  brow  of  Gilboa  is  war's  bloody  stain,  — 
The  pride  and  the  beauty  of  Israel  is  slain  ! 
O  publish  it  not  in  proud  Askelon's  street, 
Nor  tell  it  in  Gath,  lest  in  triumph  they  meet, 

For  how  are  the  mighty  fallen  ! 

O  mount  of  Gilboa,  no  dew  shalt  thou  see, 
Save  the  blood  of  the  Philistine  fall  upon  thee ; 
For  the  strong-pinioned  eagle  of  Israel  is  dead  ; 
Thy  brow  is  his  pillow,  thy  bosom  his  bed  ! 

O  how  are  the  mighty  fallen ! 

Weep,  daughters  of  Israel,  weep  o'er  his  grave  ! 
What  breast  will  now  pity,  what  arm  will  now  save? 
O  my  brother !  my  brother !  this  heart  bleeds  for  thee, 
For  thou  wert  a  friend  and  a  brother  to  me ! 

Ah,  how  are  the  mighty  fallen  ! 


THE   SICK-BED. 

O  HAVE  you  watched  beside  the  bed, 
Where  rests  the  weary,  aching  head  ? 
And  have  you  heard  the  long,  deep  groan, 
The  low-said  prayer,  in  half-breathed  tone  ? 

O  have  you  seen  the  fevered  sleep, 
Which  speaks  of  agony  within  ? 

The  eye  which  would,  but  cannot  weep, 
And  wipe  away  the  stains  of  sin  ? 

O  have  you  marked  the  struggling  breath, 
Which  would  but  cannot  leave  its  clay  ? 

And  have  you  marked  the  hand  of  death 
Unbind,  and  bid  it  haste  away  ? 

Then,  thou  hast  seen  what  thou  shalt  feel ; 

Then  thou  hast  read  thy  future  doom  ; 
O  pause,  one  moment,  o'er  death's  seal ; 

There's  no  repentance  in  the  tomb. 


BYRON. 

His  faults  were  great,  his  virtues  less, 
His  mind  a  burning  lamp  of  heaven  ; 

His  talents  were  bestowed  to  bless, 
But  were  as  vainly  lost  as  given. 

His  was  a  harp  of  heavenly  sound, 

The  numbers  wild,  and  bold,  and  clear ; 

But  ah !  some  demon,  hovering  round, 
Tuned  its  sweet  chords  to  Sin  and  Fear. 

His  was  a  mind  of  giant  mould, 

Which  grasped  at  all  beneath  the  skies  ; 
And  his  a  heart,  so  icy  cold, 

That  virtue  in  its  recess  dies. 

1823. 
7 


THE  BACHELOR. 

To   the   world  (whose    dread   laugh   he  would   tremble 

to  hear, 
From  whose    scorn    he  would    shrink  with  a   cowardly 

fear) 

The  old  bachelor  proudly  and  boldly  will  say, 
Single  lives  are  the  longest,  single  lives  are  most  gay. 

To  the  ladies,  with  pride,  he  will  always  declare, 
That  the   links   in  love's  chain    are  strife,  trouble,  and 

care ; 

That  a  wife  is  a  torment,  and  he  will  have  none, 
But    at    pleasure   will   roam    through    the    wide   world 

alone. 

And  let  him  pass  on,  in  his  sulky  of  state  ; 

O  say,  who  would  envy  that  mortal  his  fate  ? 

To  brave  all  the  ills  of  life's  tempest  alone, 

Not  a  heart  to  respond  the  warm  notes  of  his  own. 

His  joys  undivided  no  longer  will  please ; 

The    warm    tide   of  his    heart    through    inaction    will 

freeze  : 

His  sorrows  concealed,  and  unanswered  his  sighs, 
The  old  bachelor  curses  his  folly,  and  dies. 


THE  BACHELOR.  99 

Pass  on,  then,  proud  lone  one,  pass  on  to  thy  fate  ; 
Thy  sentence  is  sealed,  thy  repentance  too  late ; 
Like  an  arrow,  which   leaves  not  a  trace  on  the  wind, 
No  mark  of  thy  pathway  shall  linger  behind. 

Not    a    sweet   voice    shall    murmur    its    sighs  o'er  thy 

tomb  ; 

Not  a  fair  hand  shall  teach  thy  lone   pillow  to  bloom  ; 
Not  a  kind  tear  shall  water  thy  dark,  lonely  bed : 
By  the  living  'twas  scorned,  'tis  refused  to  the  dead. 


ON  THE  CREW  OF  A  VESSEL 

WHO   WERE   FOUND   DEAD   AT   SEA. 

THE  breeze  blew  fair,  the  waving  sea 

Curled  sparkling  round  the  vessel's  side  ; 

The  canvas  spread  with  bosom  free 
Its  swan-like  pinions  o'er  the  tide. 

Evening  had  gemmed  with  glittering  stars 

Her  coronet  so  darkly  grand  ; 
The  Queen  of  Night,  with  fleecy  clouds, 

Had  formed  her  turban's  snowy  band. 

On,  on  the  stately  vessel  flew, 

With  streamer  waving  far  and  wide ; 

When  lo !  a  bark  appeared  in  view, 
And  gayly  danced  upon  the  tide. 

Each  way  the  breeze  its  wild  wing  veered, 
That  way  the  stranger  vessel  turned  ; 

Now  near  she  drew,  now  wafted  far, 
She  fluttered,  trembled,  and  returned. 

"It  is  the  pirates'  cursed  bark! 
The  villains  linger  to  decoy! 
Thus  bounding  o'er  the  waters  dark, 
They  seek  to  lure,  and  then  destroy. 


ON  THE  CREW  OF  A    VESSEL.  lot 

"Perchance  those  strange  and  wayward  signs 

May  be  the  signals  of  distress," 
The  Captain  cried,  "for  mark  ye,  now, 
Her  sails  are  flapping  wide  and  loose." 

And  now  the  stranger  vessel  came 
Near  to  that  gay  and  gallant  bark ; 

It  seemed  a  wanderer  far  and  lone, 
Upon  life's  wave,  so  deep  and  dark. 

And  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound, 

Came  from  that  lone  and  dreary  ship ; 

The  icy  chains  of  silence  bound 
Each  rayless  eye  and  pallid  lip. 

For  Death's  wing  had  been  waving  there, 
The  cold  dew  hung  on  every  brow, 

And  sparkled  there  like  angel  tears, 
Shed  o'er  the  silent  crew  below. 

Onward  that  ship  was  gayly  flying, 
Its  bosom  was  the  sailor's  grave; 
The  breeze  'mid  the  shrouds,  in  low  notes,  sighing 
Their  requiem  over  the  brave. 

Fly  on,  fly  on,  thou  lone  vessel  of  death, 

Fly  on  with  thy  desolate  crew  ; 
For  mermaids  are  twining  a  sea-weed  wreath, 

'Mong  the  red  coral  groves  for  you. 


WOMAN'S    LOVE. 

THEY  told  me  of  her  history.     Her  love 
Was  a  neglected  flame,  which  had  consumed 
The  vase  wherein  it  kindled.     O  how  fraught 
With  bitterness  is  unrequited  love ! 
To  know  that  we  have  cast  life's  hope  away 
On  a  vain  shadow ! 

Hers  was  a  gentle  passion,  quiet,  deep, 
As  a  woman's  love  should  be, 
All  tenderness  and  silence,  only  known 
By  the  soft  meaning  of  a  downcast  eye, 
Which  almost  fears  to  look  its  timid  thoughts ; 
A  sigh,  scarce  heard  ;  a  blush,  scarce  visible, 
Alone  may  give  it  utterance.     Love  is 
A  beautiful  feeling  in  a  woman's  heart, 
When  felt  as  only  woman  love  can  feel ! 
Pure  as  the  snow-fall,  when  its  latest  shower 
Sinks  on  spring-flowers ;    deep  as  a  cave-locked    foun 
tain ; 

And  changeless  as  the  cypress's  green  leaves, 
And  like  them,  sad  !     She  nourished 
Fond  hopes  and  sweet  anxieties,  and  fed 
A  passion  unconfessed,  till  he  she  loved 
Was  wedded  to  another.    Then  she  grew 
Moody  and  melancholy ;  one  alone 
Had  power  to  soothe  her  in  her  wanderings,  — 
Her  gentle  sister ;  but  that  sister  died, 


WOMAN'S  LOVE.  103 

And  the  unhappy  girl  was  left  alone, 
A  maniac.     She  would  wander  far,  and  shunned 
Her  own  accustomed  dwelling ;  and  her  haunt 
Was  that  dead  sister's  grave :  and  that  to  her 
Was  as  a  home. 


TO  A  LADY, 

WHOSE   SINGING  RESEMBLED  THAT  OF  AN  ABSENT   SISTER. 

O!  TOUCH  the  chord  yet  once  again, 

Nor  chide  me,  though  I  weep  the  while  ; 

Believe  me,  that  deep  seraph  strain 

Bore  with  it  memory's  moonlight  smile. 

It  murmured  of  an  absent  friend  ; 

The  voice,  the  air,  'twas  all  her  own  ; 
And  hers  those  wild,  sweet  .notes  which  blend 

In  one  mild,  murmuring,  touching  tone. 

And  days  and  months  have  darkly  passed, 

Since  last  I  listened  to  her  lay ; 
And  Sorrow's  cloud  its  shade  hath  cast, 

Since  then,  across  my  weary  way. 

Yet  still  the  strain  comes  sweet  and  clear, 
Like  seraph-whispers,  lightly  breathed  ; 

Hush,  busy  memory,  Sorrow's  tear 
Will  blight  the  garland  thou  hast  wreathed. 

'Tis  sweet,  though  sad  —  yes,  I  will  stay, 
I  cannot  tear  myself  away. 


TO  A   LADY. 


I  thank  thee,  lady,  for  the  strain  ; 

The  tempest  of  my  soul  is  still  ; 
Then  touch  the  chord  yet  once  again, 

For  thou  canst  calm  the  storm  at  will ! 


ON  SEEING 
A  PICTURE  OF  THE  BLESSED  VIRGIN  MARY, 

PAINTED    SEVERAL    CENTURIES    SINCE. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

ROLL  back,  thou  tide  of  time,  and  tell 

Of  book,  of  rosary,  and.  bell  ; 

Of  cloistered  nun,  with  brow  of  gloom, 

Immured  within  her  living  tomb ; 

Of  monks,  of  saints,  and  vesper-song, 

Borne  gently  by  the  breeze  along ; 

Of  deep-toned  organ's  pealing  swell ; 

Of  Ave  Marie,  and  funeral  knell ; 

Of  midnight  taper,  dim  and  small, 

Just  glimmering  through  the  high-arched  hall ; 

Of  gloomy  cell,  of  penance  lone, 

Which  can  for  darkest  deeds  atone : 

Roll  back,  and  lift  the  veil  of  night, 

For  I  would  view  the  anchorite. 

Yes,  there  he  sits,  so  sad,  so  pale, 

Shuddering  at  Superstition's  tale : 

Crossing  his  breast  with  meagre  hand, 

While  saints  and  priests,  a  motley  band, 

Arrayed  before  him,  urge  their  claim 

To  heal  in  the  Redeemer's  name  ; 


ON  SEEING  A   PICTURE.  107 

To  mount  the  saintly  ladder  (made 

By  every  monk,  of  every  grade, 

From  portly  abbot,  fat  and  fair, 

To  yon  lean  starveling,  shivering  there), 

And  mounting  thus,  to  usher  in 

The  soul,  thus  ransomed  from  its  sin. 

And  tell  me,  hapless  bigot,  why, 

For  what,  for  whom  did  Jesus  die, 

If  pyramids  of  saints  must  rise 

To  form  a  passage  to  the  skies  ? 

And  think  you  man  can  wipe  away 

With  fast  and  penance,  day  by  day, 

One  single  sin,  too  dark  to  fade 

Before  a  bleeding  Saviour's  shade  ? 

O  ye  of  little  faith,  beware ! 

For  neither  shrift,  nor  saint,  nor  prayer, 

Will  aught  avail  ye  without  Him 

Beside  whom  saints  themselves  grow  dim. 

Roll  back,  thou  tide  of  time,  and  raise 

The  faded  forms  of  other  days ! 

Yon  time-worn  picture,  darkly  grand, 

The  work  of  some  forgotten  hand, 

Will  teach  thee  half  thy  mazy  way, 

While  Fancy's  watch-fires  dimly  play  ; 

Roll  back,  thou  tide  of  time,  and  tell 

Of  secret  charm,  of  holy  spell, 

Of  Superstition's  midnight  rite, 

Of  wild  Devotion's  seraph  flight, 

Of  Melancholy's  tearful  eye, 

Of  the  sad  votaress'  frequent  sigh, 

That  trembling  from  her  bosom  rose, 

Divided  'twixt  her  Saviour's  woes 


lo8  ON  SEEING  A    PICTURE. 

And  some  warm  image  lingering  there, 
Which,  half-repulsed  by  midnight  prayer, 
Still,  like  an  outcast  child,  will  creep 
Where  sweetly  it  was  wont  to  sleep, 
And  mingle  its  unhallowed  sigh 
With  cloister-prayer  and  rosary  ; 
Then  tell  the  pale  deluded  one 
Her  vows  are  breathed  to  God  alone : 
Those  vows,  which  tremulously  rise, 
Love's  last,  love's  sweetest  sacrifice. 

[Unfinished.] 


AMERICAN  POETRY. 


A   FRAGMENT. 


MUST  every  shore  ring  boldly  to  the  voice 

Of  sweet  poetic  harmony,  save  this  ? 

Rouse  thee,  America !  for  shame !  for  shame ! 

Gather  thy  infant  bands,  and  rise  to  join 
Thy  glimmering  taper  to  the  holy  flame  : 

Such  honor,  if  no  other,  may  be  thine. 
Shall  Gallia's  children  sing  beneath  the  yoke  ? 

Shall    Ireland's    harp-strings    thrill,  though    all    un 
strung  ? 
And  must  America,  her  bondage  broke, 

Oppression's  blood-stains  from  her  garment  wrung, 
Must  she  be  silent  ?     Who  may  then  rejoice  ? 

If  she  be  tuneless,  Harmony,  farewell ! 
O  !  shame,  America  !  wild  Freedom's  voice 

Echoes,  "  shame  on  thee,"  from  her  wild-wood  dell. 
Shall  conquered  Greece  still  sing  her  glories  past  ? 
Shall  humbled  Italy  in  ruins  smile  ? 
And  canst  thou  then — [Unfinished.] 


HEADACHE. 

HEADACHE  !  J;hou  bane  to  Pleasure's  fairy  spell, 
Thou  fiend,  thou  foe  to  joy,  I  know  thee  well ! 
Beneath  thy  lash  I've  writhed  for  many  an  hour, — 
I  hate  thee,  for  I've  known  and  dread  thy  power. 

Even  the  heathen  gods  were  made  to  feel 
The  aching  torments  which  thy  hand  can  deal ; 
And  Jove,  the  ideal  king  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Owned   thy  dread    power,  which  called    stern  Wisdom 
forth. 

Wouldst  thou  thus  ever  bless  each  aching  head, 
And  bid  Minerva  make  the  brain  her  bed, 
Blessings  might  then  be  taught  to  rise  from  woe, 
And  Wisdom  spring  from  every  throbbing  brow. 

But  always  the  reverse  to  me,  unkind, 

Folly  forever  dogs  thee  close  behind  ; 

And  from  this  burning  brow,  her  cap  and  bell, 

Forever  jingle  Wisdom's  funeral  knell. 


TO  A  STAR. 

THOU  brightly  glittering  star  of  even, 

Thou  gem  upon  the  brow  of  heaven, 

O  !  were  this  fluttering  spirit  free, 

How  quick  'twould  spread  its  wings  to  thee. 

How  calmly,  brightly  dost  thou  shine, 
Like  the  pure  lamp  in  Virtue's  shrine ! 
Sure  the  fair  world  which  thou  mayst  boast 
Was  never  ransomed,  never  lost. 

There,  beings  pure  as  heaven's  own  air, 
Their  hopes,  their  joys,  together  share ; 
While  hovering  angels  touch  the  string, 
And  seraphs  spread  the  sheltering  wing. 

There  cloudless  days  and  brilliant  nights, 
Illumed  by  heaven's  refulgent  lights  ; 
There  seasons,  years,  unnoticed  roll, 
And  unregretted  by  the  soul. 

Thou  little  sparkling  star  of  even, 
Thou  gem  upon  an  azure  heaven, 
How  swiftly  will  I  soar  to  thee, 
When  this  imprisoned  soul  is  free  ! 


SONG  OF  VICTORY, 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF    GOLIATH. 

STRIKE  with  joy  the  wild  harp's  string, 
God,  O  Israel,  is  your  King  ! 
We  have  slain  our  deadliest  foe, 
David's  arm  hath  laid  him  low. 

Saul  hath  oft  his  thousands  slain, 

His  trophies  have  bedecked  the  plain  ; 

But  David's  tens  of  thousands  lie 

In  slaughtered  millions,  mounted  high. 

Sound  the  trumpet  —  strike  the  string, 
Loud  let  the  song  of  victory  ring  ; 
Wreathe  with  glory  David's  brow, 
He  hath  laid  Goliath  low. 

Mark  him  on  yon  crimson  plain  ; 
He  is  conquered  —  he  is  slain  ; 
He  who  lately  rose  so  high, 
Scoffed  at  man,  and  braved  the  sky. 

Strike  with  joy  the  wild  harp's  string, 
God,  O  Israel,  is  your  King! 
We  have  slain  our  deadliest  foe, 
David's  arm  hath  laid  him  low. 


THE    INDIAN    CHIEF    AND    CONCONAY. 

THE  Indian  Chieftain  is  far   away, 

Through  the  forest  his  footsteps  fly ; 
But  his  heart  is  behind  him  with  Conconay, 
He  thinks  of  his  love  in  the  bloody  fray, 

When  the  storm  of  war  is  high. 

But  little  he  thinks  of  the  bloody  foe 

Who  is  bearing  that  love  away  ; 
And  little  he  thinks  of  her  bosom's  woe, 
And  little  he  thinks  of  the  burning  brow 

Of  his  lovely  Conconay. 

They  tore  her  away  from  her  friends,  from  her  home, 

They  tore  her  away  from  her  Chief; 
Through    the   wild-wood,  when  weary,  they  forced    her 

to  roam, 
Or  to  dash  the  light  oar  in  the  river's  white  foam, 

While  her  bosom  o'erflowed  with  grief. 

But  there  came  a  foot,  'twas  swift,  'twas  light, 

'Twas  the  brother  of  him  she  loved ; 
His  heart  was  kind,  and  his  eye  was  bright ; 
He  paused  not  by  day,  and  he  slept  not  by  night, 

While  through  the  wild  forest  he  roved. 


114  THE  INDIAN  CHIEF  AND  CONGO  NAY. 

'Twas     Lightfoot,    the    generous,    'twas    Lightfoot    the 

young, 

And  he  loved  the  sweet  Conconay  ; 
But  his  bosom  to  honor  and  virtue  was  strung, 
And    the   chords    of  his    heart    should  to  breaking  be 

wrung 
Ere  love  should  gain  o'er  him  the  sway. 

Far,  far  from  her  stern  foes  he  bore  her  away, 

And  sought  his  own  forest  once  more  ; 
But  sad  was  the  heart  of  the  young  Conconay, 
Her  bosom  recoiled  when  she  strove  to  be  gay, 
And  was  even  more  drear  than  before. 

"Pis  evening,  and  weary,  and  faint,  and  weak 

Is  the  beautiful  Conconay ; 

She  could  wander  no  farther,  she  strove  to  speak, 
But  lifeless  she  sunk  upon  Lightfoot's  neck, 

And  seemed  breathing  her  soul  away. 

The  young  warrior  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven, 

He  turned  them  towards  the  west  ; 
For  one  moment  a  ray  of  light  was  given, 
Like  lightning,  which  through  the  cloud  hath  riven, 

But  to  strike  at  the  fated  breast. 

For  there  was  his  brother  returning  from  far, 

O'er  his  shoulder  his  scalps  were  slung; 
For  he  had  been  victor  amid  the  war, 
His  plume  had  gleamed  like  the  polar  star, 
And  on  him  had  the  victory  hung. 


THE   INDIAN  CHIEF  AND   CONGO  NAY.  11 

The  Chieftain  paused  in  his  swift  career, 

For  he  knew  his  Conconay  ; 
He  saw  the  maid  his  heart  held  dear, 
On  his  brother's  breast,  in  the  forest  drear, 

From  her  home  so  far  away. 

He  bent  his  bow,  the  arrow  flew, 

It  was  aimed  at  Lightfoot's  breast ; 
And  it  pierced  a  heart  as  warm  and  true 
As  ever  a  mortal  bosom  knew, 

Or  in  mortal  garb  was  dressed. 

He  turned  to  his  love  —  from  her  brilliant  eye 

The  cloud  was  passing  away  ; 
She  let  fall  a  tear  —  she  breathed  a  sigh  — 
She  turned  towards  Lightfoot  —  she  uttered  a  cry, 

For  weltering  in  gore  he  lay. 

Her  heart  was  filled  with  horror  and  woe, 

When  she  gazed  on  the  form  of  her  Chief; 
'Twas  his  loved  hand  that  had  bent  the  bow, 
'Twas  he  who  had  laid  her  preserver  low  ; 
And  she  yielded  her  soul  to  grief. 

And  'twas  said,  that  ere  time  had  healed  the  wound 

In  the  breast  of  the  mourning  maid, 
That  a  pillar  was  reared  on  the  fatal  ground, 
And  ivy  the  snow-white  monument  crowned 

With  its  dark  and  jealous  shade. 


•  THE   MOTHER'S    LAMENT   FOR   HER   INFANT. 

COLD  is  his  brow,  and  the  dew  of  the  evening 
Hangs  damp  o'er  that  form  I  so  fondly  caressed  ; 

Dim  is  that  eye  which  once  sparkled  with  gladness  ; 
Hushed  are  the  griefs  of  my  infant  at  rest. 

Calmly  he  lies  on  a  bosom  far  colder 

Than   that  which   once    pillowed    his  health-blushing 

cheek  ; 
Calmly  he'll  rest  there,  and  silently  moulder, 

No  grief  to  disturb  him,  no  sigh  to  awake. 

Dread  king  of  the  grave,  O !  return  me  my  child ! 

Unfetter  his  heart  from  the  cold  chains  of  death ! 
Monarch  of  terrors,  so  gloomy,  so  silent, 

Loose  the  adamant  clasp  of  thy  cold,  icy  wreath  ! 

Where  is  my  infant?  the  storms  may  descend, 
The  snows  of  the  winter  may  cover  his  head  ; 

The  wing  of  the  wind  o'er  his  low  couch  may  bend, 
And    the  frosts-  of  the  night  sparkle  bright  o'er  the 
dead. 

Where  is  my  infant  ?  the  damp  ground  is  cold, 
Too  cold  for  those  features  so  laughing  and  light ;  • 

Methinks  these  fond  arms  should  encircle  his  form, 
And  shield  off  the  tempest  which  wanders  at  night. 


THE  MOTHER'S  LAMENT. 


117 


This  fond  bosom  loved  him,  ah !  loved  him  too  dearly, 
And  the  frail  idol  fell,  while  I  bent  to  adore  ; 

All  its  beauty  has  faded,  and  broken  before  me . 
Is  the  god   my  heart  ventured  to  worship  before. 

'Tis  just,  and  I  bow  'neath  the  mandate  of  -Heaven  ; 

Thy  will,  O  my  Father,  forever  be  done ! 
Bless  God,  O  my  soul,  for  the  chastisement  given, 

Henceforth  will  I  worship  my  Saviour  alone ! 


ON   THE   MOTTO   OF   A   SEAL. 
"IF  I  LOSE  THEE,   I  AM  LOST." 

ADDRESSED  TO   A   FRIEND. 

WAFTED  o'er  a  treacherous  sea, 
Far  from  home,  and  far  from  thee, 
Between  the  heaven  and  ocean  tossed, 
"If  I  lose  thee,  I  am  lost." 

When  the  polar  star  is  beaming, 
O'er  the  dark-browed  billows  gleaming, 
I  think  of  thee  and  dangers  crossed, 
For  "  If  I  lose  thee,  I  am  lost." 

When  the  light-house  fire  is  blazing, 
High  towards  heaven  its  red  crust  raising, 
I  think  of  thee,  while  onward  tossed, 
For  •"  If  I  lose  thee,  I  am  lost" 


SHAKESPEARE. 

SHAKESPEARE  !    "  with    all    thy    faults    (and    few    have 

more) 

I  love  thee  still,"  and  still  will  con  thee  o'er. 
Heaven,  in  compassion  to  man's  erring  heart, 
Gave  thee  of  virtue,  then  of  vice  a  part, 
Lest  we,  in  wonder  here,  should  bow  before  thee, 
Break  God's  commandment,  worship,  and  adore  thee  : 
But  admiration  now,  and  sorrow  join  ; 
His  works  we  reverence,  while  we-pity  thine. 


TO  A  LADY  RECOVERING  FROM  SICKNESS. 

THERE  is  a  charm  in  the  pallid  cheek, 
A  charm  which  the  tongue  can  never  speak, 
When  the  hand  of  sickness  has  withered  awhile, 
The  rose  which,  had  bloomed  in  the  rays  of  a  smile. 

There  is  a  charm  in  the  heavy  eye, 
When  the  tear  of  sorrow  is  passing  by, 
Like  a  summer  shower  o'er  yon  vault  of  blue, 
Or  the  violet  trembling  'neath  drops  of  dew. 

It  spreads  around  a  shade  as  light 
As  daylight  blending  with  the  night ; 
Or  'tis  like  the  tints  of  an  evening  sky, 
And  soft  as  the  breathing  of  sorrow's  sigh. 


THE  VISION. 

'TWAS  evening  —  all  was  calm  and  silent,  save 
The  low,  hoarse  dashing  of  the  distant  wave  ; 
The  whip-poor-will  had  closed  his  pensive  lay, 
Which  sweetly  mourned  the  sun's  declining  ray  ; 
Tired  of  a  world  surcharged  with  pain  and  woe, 
Weary  of  heartless  forms  and  all  below, 
Broken  each  tie,  bereft  of  every  friend, 
Whose  sympathy  might  consolation  lend, 
And  musing  on  each  vain  and  earthly  toy, 
Walked  the  once  gay  and  still  brave  Oleroy. 
Thus  lost  in  thought,  unconsciously  he  strayed, 
When  a  dark  forest  wild  around  him  laid. 
In  vain  he  tried  the  beaten  path  to  gain, 
He  sought  it  earnestly,  but  sought  in  vain  ; 
At  length  o'ercome,  he  sunk  upon  the  ground, 
Where  the  dark  ivy  twined  its  branches  round  : 
Sudden  there  rose  upon  his  wandering  ear, 
Notes  which  e'en  angels  might  delighted  hear. 
Now  low  they  murmur,  now  majestic  rise, 
As  though  "  some  spirit  banished  from  the  skies " 
Had  there  repaired  to  tune  the  mournful  lay, 
"  And  chase  the  sorrows  of  his  soul  away." 
They  ceased  —  when  lo !  a  brilliant  dazzling  light 
Illumed  the  wood  and  chased  the  shades  of  night ; 
He  raised  his  head  ;  there  stood,  near  Oleroy, 
The  beauteous  figure  of  a  smiling  boy  ; 


122  THE    VISION. 

Across  his  shoulder  hung  an  ivory 'horn, 
With  jewels  glittering  like  the  rays  of  morn  ; 
In  his  white  hand  he  held  the  tuneful  lyre, 
And  in  his  eyes  there  beamed  a  heavenly  fire ; 
Approaching  Oleroy,  he  smiling  cried,  — 
You  hate  the  world  and  all  its  charms  deride, 
You  hate  the  world  and  all  it  doth  contain, 
Condemn  each  joy,  and  call  each  pleasure  pain  ; 
Then  come,  he  sweetly  cried,  come,  follow  me, 
Another  world  thy  sorrowing  eyes  shall  see. 

No  sooner  said  than  swift  the  smiling  boy 
Led  from  the  bower  the  wond'ring  Oleroy.  . 
Beneath  a  tree  three  sylph-like  forms  recline  ; 
Each  form  was  beauteous,  and  each  face  benign  ; 
Beside  them  stood  a  chariot  dazzling  bright, 
Yoked  with  two  beauteous  swans  of  purest  white  ; 
They  mount  the  chariot,  and  ascend  on  high  ; 
They  bend  the  lash,  on  winged  winds  they  fly  ; 
Above  the  spacious  globe  they  stretch  their  flight  ; 
That  globe  seemed  now  but  as  a  cloud  of  night. 
Swift    towards    the    moon    the  white  swans  bend  their 

way, 

And  a  new  world  its  treasures  doth  display. 
They  halt ;  before  them  rocks  and  hills  are  spread, 
And  birds,  and  beasts,  which  at  their  footsteps  fled. 
Another  moon  emits  a  softer  ray, 
And  other  moonbeams  on  the  waters  play  : 
They  wander  on,  and  reach  a  darksome  cave, 
Against  whose  side  loud  roars  the  dashing  wave : 
These  words  upon  its  rugged  front  appear,  — 


THE    VISION. 


123 


"What  in  your  world  is  lost,  is  treasured  here." 

They  enter ;  round  upon  the  floor  are  strewn 

The  ivory  sceptre,  and  the  glittering  crown  ; 

Unnumbered  hopes  there  fluttered  on  the  wing, 

There  were  the  lays  discarded  lovers  sing  ; 

There  Fame  her  trumpet  blew,  long,  loud,  and  clear ; 

Worlds  tremble  as  the  deafening  notes  they  hear ; 

There  brooded  riches  o'er  his  lifeless  heap  ; 

There  were  the  tears  which  misery's  children  weep  ; 

There  were  posthumous  alms,  and  misspent  time 

Lost  in  a  jingling  mass  of  foolish  rhyme. 

There  was  the  conscience  of  the  miser  ;    there 

The  tears  of  love,  —  the  pity  of  the  fair  ; 

There,  pointing,  cried  the  sylph-like  smiling  boy, 

There's  the  content  which  fled  you,  Oleroy ! 

Regain  it  if  you  can  ;   then  far  away, 

And  reach  your  world  before  the  dawn  of  day. 


ON    SEEING   AT    A   CONCERT  THE    PUBLIC    PER 
FORMANCE  OF  A  FEMALE  DWARF. 

HELPLESS,  unprotected,  weary, 

Tossed  upon  the  world's  wide  sea, 

Borne  from  those  I  love  most  dearly, 
Say  —  dost  thou  not  feel  for  me  ? 

Who  that  hath  shrunk  'neath  Nature's  frown, 
Would  court  false  fortune's  fickle  smile  ? 

O,  who  would  wander  thus  alone, 
Reckless  alike  of  care  or  toil  ? 

Who.  would,  for  fading  pleasure,  brave 
The  sea  of  troubles,  dark  and  deep  ? 

For  lo !  the  gems  which  deck  the  wave 
Vanish,  and  "  leave  the  wretch  to  weep." 

Twas  not  for  fortune's  smile  of  light, 
Which  beams  but  to  destroy  forever  ; 

'Twas  not  for  pleasure's  bubbles  bright, 
Which  dazzle  still,  deluding  ever: 

Oft  have  I  faltered  when  alone 

Before  the  crowd  I  sung  my  lay  ; 
But  ah,  a  father's  feeble  moan 

'Rung  in  my  ears,  I  dared  not  stay. 


PUBLIC  PERFORMANCE   OF  A    FEMALE   DWARF.  125 

O,  I  have  borne  pride's  scornful  look, 

And  burning  taunts  from  slander's  tongue  ; 

Yet  more  of  malice  I  could  brook, 

E'en  though  my  heart  with  grief  was. wrung. 

Adieu  !   a  long  —  a  last  adieu  — 

Once  more  I  launch  upon  life's  sea ; 

But  still  shall  memory  turn  to  you, 
For,  stranger,  you  have  felt  for  me. 


ALONZO  AND  IMANEL. 

As  he  spoke,  he  beheld  on  the  sea-beaten  strand 

A  form,  'twas  so  airy,  so  light, 

He  could  almost  have  sworn  by  the  faith  of  his  land 
That  an  angel  was  wand'ring  'mid  rocks  and  through 
sand, 

'Neath  the  moonbeam  so  fitfully  bright. 

He  paused,  as  the  bittern  screamed  loud  o'er  his  head : 

One  moment  he  paused  on  the  shore, 
To  mark  the  wild  wave  as  it  dashed  from  its  bed, 
Tossing    high   the  white    spray  from  its  foam-spangled 
head, 

With  a  fitful  and  deafening  roar. 

He  caught  the  wild  notes  of  a  song,  on  the  wind, 

Ere  the  tempest-god  bore  them  away  : 
And  they  told  of  a  tortured  and  desperate  mind, 
To  despair's  dark  shadows  forever  resigned, 
Of  a  heart  once  hope-lighted  and  gay. 

The  bright  moon  was  hid  in  the  breast  of  the   storm, 

And  darkness  and  terror  drew  round  ; 
Yet  still  he  could  mark  her  light,  fanciful  form, 
As  she  roamed  round  the  wild  rocks,  devoid  of  alarm, 

Though  the  fiend  of  the  whirlwind  frowned. 


ALONZO   AND  IMAh'EL.  12  J 

O  tell  me,  he  cried,  what  spirit  so  light, 

So  beautiful  e'en  in  despair, 
Is  wand'ring  alone  'mid  the  storm  of  the  night, 
When  to  guide  her  no  star  in  the  heaven  is  bright, 

No  gleam  save  the  lightning's  red  glare  ! 

"Tis  young  Imanel,  answered  his  guide  with  a  sigh, 

The  rich,  the  beloved,  and  the  gay, 
Who    is    doomed  from    her  friends  and  her  country  to 

%> 

For  she  loved,  and  she  wedded  Alonzo  the  spy, 
Who  has  left  her  and  fled  far  away. 

Alonzo  the  spy !  and  he  darted  away 

With  the  speed  of  a  shooting  star, 
Nor  heeded  the  call  of  his  guide  to  stay, 
But  toward  the  poor  lone  one  he  bounded  away  ; 

She  had  fled  to  the  sea-beach  afar. 

One  glance  of  the  forked  lightning's  glare 
Played  bright  round  the  fair  one's  face, 
And  it  beamed  on  Alonzo,  for  he  was  there, 
And  it  beamed  on  his  bride,  on  his  Imanel  dear, 
Clasped  at  length  in  his  joyful  embrace. 


TO    MARGARET'S    EYE. 

O !  I  have  seen  the  blush  of  morn, 

And  I  have  seen  the  evening  sky ; 
But  ah  !  they  faded  when  I  gazed 

On  the  bright  heaven  of  Margaret's  eye. 

• 

I've  seen  the  Queen  of  evening  ride 
Majestic  'mid  the  clouds  on  high  ; 

But  e'en  Diana  in  her  pride 

Was  dim  near  Margaret's  brilliant  eye. 

I've  seen  the  azure  vault  of  heaven, 
I've  seen  the  star-bespangled  sky  ; 

But  O !  I  would  the  whole  have  given 

For  one  sweet  glance  from  Margaret's  eye. 

I've  seen  the  dew  upon  the  rose ; 

It  trembled  'neath  the  zephyr's  sigh  ; 
But  O  !  the  tear  which  Nature  shed 

Was  dim  near  that  in  Margaret's  eye. 


A  SONG. 

LIFE  is  but  a  troubled  ocean, 

Hope  a  meteor,  love  a  flower 
Which  blossoms  in  the  morning  beam, 

And  withers  with  the  evening  hour. 

Ambition  is  a  dizzy  height, 

And  glory  but  a  lightning  gleam  ; 

Fame  is  a  bubble,  dazzling  bright, 

Which  fairest  shines  in  fortune's  beam. 

When  clouds  and  darkness  veil  the  skies, 
And  sorrow's  blast  blows  loud  and  chill, 

Friendship  shall  like  a  rainbow  rise, 
And  softly  whisper  —  "Peace,  be  still." 


TWILIGHT. 

How  sweet  the  hour  when  daylight  blends 
With  the  pensive  shadows  on  evening's  breast ! 

And  dear  to  the  heart  is  the  pleasure  it  lends  ; 
'Tis  like  the  departure  of  saints  to  their  rest. 

O,  'tis  sweet,  Saranac,  on  thy  loved  banks  to  stray, 
To   watch    the    last    day-beam    dance    light    on    thy 
wave, 

To  mark  the  white  skiff  as  it  skims  o'er  the  bay,* 
Or  heedlessly  bounds  o'er  the  warrior's  grave. 

O,  'tis  sweet  to  a  heart  unentangled  and  light, 

When    with   hope's    brilliant   prospects    the   fancy  is 
blest, 

To  pause  'mid  its  day-dreams  so  witchingly  bright, 
And  mark  the  last  sunbeams,  while  sinking  to   rest. 

*  Cumberland  Bay,  the  scene  of  a  battle  during  the  last  war. 


THE   WHITE    MAID    OF   THE   ROCK. 

LOUD  'gainst  the  rocks  the  wild  spray  is   dashing, 
Its    snowy  white   foam    o'er    the  waves    rudely    splash 
ing  ; 

The  woods  echo  round  to  the  bittern's  shrill  scream, 
As  he  dips  his  black  wing  in  the  wave  of  the  stream  ; 
Now  mournful  and  sad  the  low  murmuring  breeze 
Sighs  lonely  and  dismal  through  hollow  oak  trees. 
The  owl  loudly  hoots,  while  his  lonely  abode 
Serves  to  shelter  the  snake  and  the  poisonous  toad  ; 
Lo !  the  black  thunder-cloud  is  spread  over  the  skies, 
And  the  swift-winged  lightning  at  intervals  flies. 
The  streamlet  looks  dark,  and  the  spray  wilder  breaks  ; 
And  the  alder-leaf  dank  with  its  silver  drop,  shakes ; 
This  dell  and  these  rocks,  this  lone  alder  and   stream, 
With  the  dew-drops  which  dance  in  the   moon's   silver 

beam, 

Are  sacred  to  beings  ethereal  and  light, 
Who  hold  their  dark  orgies  alone  and  at  night. 
Wild,  and  more  wild,  dashed  the  waves  of  the  stream, 
The  White    Maid  of  the    Rock    gave  a  shrill,  piercing 

scream  ; 
Down    headlong    she    plunged  'neath   the    dark   rolling 

wave, 

And,  rising,  thus  chanted  a  dirge  to  the  brave  :  — 
"The  raven  croaks  loud  from  her  nest  in  the  rock, 
The  night-owl's  shrill  hooting  resounds  from  the  oak  ; 


132  THE    WHITE  MAID   OF   THE  ROCK. 

Behold  the  retreat  where  brave  Avenel  is  laid, 
Uncoffined,  except  by  his  own  Scottish  plaid  ! 
Long  since  has  my  girdle  diminished  to  naught, 
And  the  great  house  of  Avenel  low  has  been  brought; 
The  star  now  burns   dimly  which  once  brightly  shone, 
And  proud  Avenel's  glory  forever  has  flown. 
As    I    sailed   and    my  white    garments    caught    in    the 

brake, 
'Neath    the    oak,  whose  huge  branches  extend  o'er  the 

lake, 

'  Woe  to  thee  !  woe  to  thee  !  Maid  of  the  Rock,' 
Cried  the  night-raven  who  builds  in  the  oak ; 
'  Woe  to  thee !  guardian  spirit  of  Avenel ! 
Where  are  thy  holly-bush,  streamlet,  and  dell  ? 
No  longer  thou  sittest  to  watch  and  to  weep, 
Near  the  abbey's  lone  walls,  and  its  turrets   so   steep ! 
Woe  to  thee  !  woe  to  thee !  Maid  of  the  Rock,' 
Cried  the  night-raven  who  builds  in  the  oak ! 
Then  farewell,  great  Avenel,  thy  proud  race  is  run  ! 
The  girdle  has  vanished  —  my  task   is  now  done." 
Then  her  long  flowing  tresses  around  her  she  drew, 
And    her  form    'neath  the  wave  of  the  dark  streamlet 

threw. 


HABAKKUK    III.  6. 

WHEN  Cushan  was  mourning  in  solitude  drear, 
When  the  curtains  of  Midian  trembled  with  fear, 
On  the  wings  of  salvation  thy  chariot  did  fly : 
Thou  didst    stride    the  wide  whirlwind  and  come  from 
on  high. 

Earth  shook,  and  before  thee  the  mountains  did  bow : 
The  voice  of  the  deep  thundered  loud  from   below  ; 
Thy  arrows  glanced  bright  as   they  shot   through    the 

air, 

And  far  gleamed  the  light  of  thy  glittering  spear ; 
The  bright  orb  of  day  paused  in  wonder  on  high, 
And  the  lamp  of  the  night  stood  still  in  the  sky. 


LOVE,    JOY,    AND    PLEASURE. 

AN    ALLEGORY. 

THE  night  was  calm,  the  sky  serene, 

The  sea  a  mirror  displayed  ; 
On  its  bosom  the  twinkling  stars  were  seen, 
The  moon-crested  waves  were  dancing  between, 

And  smiling  through  evening's  shade. 

On  that  placid  sea  Pleasure's  bark  was  riding, 
Love  and  Joy  were  its  guides  through  the  deep  ; 

And    their    hearts    beat    high,    while  on    fortune    con 
fiding, 

They  smiled  at  the  forms  that  were  gloomily  striding 
O'er  the  brow  of  the  wave-washed  steep. 

Those  forms  were  Malice,  and  Scorn,  and  Hate, 

And  they  flitted  around  so  dark, 
That  they  seemed  like  the  gloomy  sisters  of  Fate, 
Intent  on  some  dreary,  some  deadly  debate, 

To  ruin  the  beautiful  bark. 

But  the  eye  of  Joy  was  raised  on  high, 

She  gazed  at  the  moon's  pale  lamp  ; 
The  tear  of  pleasure  shone  bright  in  her  eye, 
And  she  saw  not  the  clouds  that  were  passing  by, 

Death's  messengers  dark  and  damp. 


LOVE,   JOY,  AND  PLEASURE.  135 

And  Pleasure  was  gazing  with  childish  glee 

At  the  beacon's  trembling  gleam, 
Or  watching  the  shade  of  her  wings  in  the  sea, 
With  their  colors  as  varied  and  fickle  as  she, 

As  fleeting  as  Folly's  dream. 

And  Love  was  tipping  his  feathery  darts, 

And  feeding  his  flaming  torch  ; 

He  was  tinging  his  wings  with  the  blood  of  hearts  ; 
He  was  chanting    low  numbers,  and    smiling   by  starts 

At  the  flowers  round  Hymen's  porch. 

Meanwhile  the  clouds  were  gath'ring  drear, 

They  hung  round  the  weeping  moon, 
And  still  the  mariners  dreamed  not  of  fear, 
Still  in  Joy's  bright  eye  beamed  the  brilliant  tear, 

Which  sorrow  would  claim  too  soon. 

The  voice  of  the  tempest-god  rolled  around, 

The  bark  towards  heaven  was  tossed  ; 
Then,  then  the  fond  dreamers  awoke  at  the  sound, 
And  Pleasure,  the  helmsman,  in  agony  found 

That  the  light-house  fire  was  lost. 

Loud  and  more  loud  the  billows  roar, 

The  ocean  no  more  is  gay; 

Love  dreams  of  his  pinions  and  arrows  no  more, 
Joy  mourns  the  hour  that  she  left  the  shore, 

And  Pleasure's  bright  wings  fade  away. 


136  LOVE,   JOY,  AND  PLEASURE. 

Then  Malice  sent  forth  a  shadowy  bark, 

Which,  bounding  o'er  the  wave, 
Came  like  a  meteor's  brilliant  spark, 
A  star  of  light  mid  the  tempest  dark, 

A  beacon  of  hope  from  the  grave. 

Joy  onward  rushed  to  the  airy  skiff 

Which  near  them  gayly  drew  ; 
But  ah!  she  sank  to  the  arms  of  Grief, 
For  the  bark,  which  promised  them  sure  relief, 

Away  like  lightning  flew. 

Then  the  smile  of  Scorn  and  Malice  gleamed 

Across  the  billow's  foam, 
And  long  and  loud  fell  Hatred  screamed 
With  fiend-like  joy,  as  the  lightning  streamed 

Around  their  forms  of  gloom. 

On,  on,  they  drifted  before  the  gale  ; 

Again  the  signal  rose ; 
Joy  and  Pleasure  the  beacon  hail ; 
Love's  ashy  cheek  becomes  less  pale 

As  clearer  and  brighter  it  glows. 

'Twas  Hope  who  fired  the  beacon  high, 

And  she  came  with  her  anchor  of  rest; 
And  Faith,  who  raised  towards  heaven  her  eye, 
Spoke  peace  to  the  storm  of  the  troubled  sky, 
And  calm  to  the  weary  breast. 


LOVE,   JOY,  AND  PLEASURE.  137 

And  Charity  came  with  her  robe  of  light, 

And  she  led  the  wanderers  home  ; 
She    warned    them    and    wept    o'er    the    woes    of   the 

night, 
And  she  welcomed  them  in  with  a  smile  so  bright, 

That  Pleasure  forgot  to  roam. 

And  she  led  them  to  Religion's  shrine, 

Where  Hope  was  humbly  kneeling, 
And  there  the  tears  of  Joy  did  shine 
With  a  light  more  dazzling,  more  divine, — 

They  were  mingled  with  tears  of  feeling. 

There  Love's  wild  wings  shone  calmly  bright, 

As  over  the  altar  he  waved  them ; 
There  Pleasure  folded  her  pinions  light, 
And  fondly  gazed  with  a  sacred  delight 

On  the  scroll  which  Charity  gave  them. 


O    THAT    THE   EAGLE'S    WING    WERE    MINE! 

O  THAT  the  eagle's  wing  were  mine ! 

I'd  soar  above  the  dreary  earth  ; 
I'd  spread  my  wings,  and  rise  to  join 

The  immortal  fountain  of  my  birth. 

For  what  is  joy  ?  how  soon  it  fades,  — 

The  childish  vision  of  an  hour ! 
Though  warm  and  brilliant  are  its  shades, 

'Tis  but  a  frail  and  fading  flower. 

And  what  is  hope  ?  it  is  a  light 
Which  leads  us  on  deluding  ever, 

Till  lost  amid  the  shades  of  night 
We  sink,  and  then  it  flies  forever! 

And  what  is  love  ?  it  is  a  dream, 
A  brilliant  fable  framed  by  youth ; 

A  bubble  dancing  on  life's  stream, 
And  sinking  'neath  the  eye  of  truth. 

And  what  are  honor,  glory,  fame, 

But  Death's  dark  watchwords  to  the  grave  ? 
The  victim  dies,  and  lo  !  his  name 

Is  lost  in  life's  swift  rolling  wave. 


O  THAT  THE  EAGLE'S    WING    WERE   MINE!         139 

And  what  are  all  the  joys  of  life, 

But  vanity,  and  toil,  and  woe  ? 
What  but  a  bitter  cup  of  grief, 

With  dregs  of  sin  and  death  below  ? 

This  world  is  but  the  first  dark  gate 

Unfolded  to  the  waking  soul ; 
But  Death  unerring,  led  by  Fate, 

Shall  heaven's  bright  portals  backward  roll. 

Then  shall  this  unchained  spirit  fly 

On  to  the  God  who  gave  it  life  ; 
Rejoicing  as  it  soars  on  high, 

Released  from  danger,  doubt,  and  strife. 

There  will  it  pour  its  anthems  forth, 
Bending  before  its  Maker's  throne,  — 

The  great  I  AM,  who  gave  it  birth, 

The  Almighty  God,  the  dread  Unknown. 


THE    SMILE   OF    INNOCENCE. 

THERE  is  a  smile  of  bitter  scorn/ 

Which  curls  the  lip,  which  lights  the  eye; 

There  is  a  smile  in  beauty's  morn, 
Just  rising  o'er  the  midnight  sky. 

There  is  a  smile  of  youthful  joy, 

When  Hope's  bright  star  's  the  transient  guest ; 
There  is  a  smile  of  placid  age, 

Like  sunset  on  the  billow's  breast. 

There  is  a  smile,  the  maniac's  smile, 

Which  lights  the  void  which  reason  leaves, 

And,  like  the  sunshine,  through  a  cloud, 
Throws  shadows  o'er  the  song  she  weaves. 

There  is  a  smile  of  love,  of  hope, 

Which  shines  a  meteor  through  life's  gloom ; 
And  there's  a  smile,  Religion's  smile, 

Which  lights  the  weary  to  the  tomb. 

There  is  a  smile,  an  angel's  smile, 

That  sainted  souls  behind  them  leave  ; 

There  is  a  smile  that  shines  through  toil, 
And  warms  the  bosom  though  in  grief; 


THE  SMILE   OF  INNOCENCE.  141 

And  there's  a  smile  on  Nature's  face, 

When  Evening  spreads  her  shades  around  ; 

A  pensive  smile  when  twinkling  stars 

Are  glimmering  through  the  vast  profound. 

But  there's  a  smile,  'tis  sweeter  still, 

'Tis  one  far  dearer  to  my  soul  ; 
It  is  a  smile  which  angels  might 

Upon  their  brightest  list  enroll. 

It  is  the  smile  of  innocence, 

Of  sleeping  infancy's  light  dream  ; 
Like  lightning  on  a  summer's  eve, 

It  sheds  a  soft  and  pensive  gleam. 

It  dances  round  the  dimpled  cheek, 

And  tells  of  happiness  within  ; 
It  smiles  what  it  can  never  speak,  — 

A  human  heart  devoid  of  sin. 


TO   MY    MOTHER. 

O  THOU  whose  care  sustained  my  infant  years, 
And  taught  my  prattling  lip  each  note  of  love  ; 

Whose  soothing  voice  breathed  comfort  to  my  fears, 
And  round  my  brow  hope's  brightest  garland  wove : 

To  thee  my  lay  is  due,  the  simple  song 

Which  Nature  gave  me  at  life's  opening  day ; 

To  thee  these  rude,  these  untaught  strains  belong, 
Whose  heart  indulgent  will  not  spurn  my  lay. 

O  say,  amid  this  wilderness  of  life, 

What  bosom  would  have  throbbed  like  thine  for  me  ? 
Who  would  have  smiled  responsive  ?   who  in  grief 

Would  e'er  have  felt,  and,  feeling,  grieved  like  thee  ? 

Who  would  have  guarded,  with  a  falcon  eye, 
Each  trembling  footstep  or  each  sport  of  fear  ? 

Who  would  have  marked  my  bosom  bounding  high, 
And  clasped  me  to  her  heart,  with  love's  bright  tear  ? 

Who  would  have  hung  around  my  sleepless  couch, 
And  fanned,  with  anxious  hand,  my  burning   brow? 

Who  would  have  fondly  pressed  my  fevered  lip, 
In  all  the  agony  of  love  and  woe  ? 


TO  MY  MOTHER.  143 

None  but  a  mother,  — none  but  one  like  thee, 
Whose  bloom  has  faded  in  the  midnight  watch  ; 

Whose  eye,  for  me,  has  lost  its  witchery, 
Whose  form  has  felt  disease's  mildew  touch. 

Yes,  thou  hast  lighted  me  to  health  and  life, 
By  the  bright  lustre  of  thy  youthful  bloom  ; 

Yes,  thou  hast  wept  so  oft  o'er  every  grief, 

That    woe    hath    traced    thy    brow   with    marks    of 
gloom. 

tt 

O  then,  to  thee  this  rude  and  simple  song, 

Which  breathes  of  thankfulness  and  love  for  thee, 

To  thee,  my  mother,  shall  this  lay  belong, 
Whose  life  is  spent  in  toil  and  care  for  me. 


SABRINA. 

A     VOLCANIC     ISLAND,     WHICH     APPEARED     AND     DISAPPEARED     AMONG 
THE   AZORES,    IN    IJII. 

ISLE  of  the  ocean,  say,  whence  comest  thou  ? 

The  smoke  thy  dark  throne,  and  the  blaze    round   thy 

brow ;     • 

The  voice  of  the  earthquake  proclaims  thee  abroad, 
And  the  deep,  at  thy  coming,  rolls  darkly  and  loud. 

From  the  breast  of  the  ocean,  the  bed  of  the  wave, 
Thou    hast    burst    into    being,    hast    sprung    from    the 

grave ; 

A  stranger,  wild,  gloomy,  yet  terribly  bright, 
Thou  art  clothed  with  the  darkness,   yet  crowned  with 

the  light. 

Thou  comest  in  flames,  thou  hast  risen  in  fire  ; 
The  wave  is  thy  pillow,  the  tempest  thy  choir  ; 
They  will  lull  thee  to  sleep  on  the  ocean's  broad  breast, 
A  slumbering  volcano,  an  earthquake  at  rest. 

Thou   hast   looked   on   the  isle  —  thou    hast  looked  on 

the  wave  — 

Then  hie  thee  again  to  thy  deep,  watery  grave  ; 
Go,  quench   thee   in  ocean,  thou  dark,  nameless  thing, 
Thou  spark  from  the  fallen  ones  wide  flaming  wing. 


THE    PROPHECY. 


TO   A    LADY. 


LET  me  gaze  awhile  on  that  marble  brow, 
On  that  full,  dark  eye,  on  that  cheek's  warm  glow  ; 
Let  me  gaze  for  a  moment,  that,  ere  I  die, 
I  may  read  thee,  maiden,  a  prophecy. 
That  brow  may  beam  in  glory  awhile  ; 
That  cheek  may  bloom,  and  that  lip  may  smile  ; 
That  full  dark  eye  may  brightly  beam 
In  life's  gay  morn,  in  hope's  young  dream  ; 
But  clouds  shall  darken  that  brow  of  snow, 
And  sorrow  blight  thy  bosom's  glow. 
I  know  by  that  spirit  so  haughty  and  high, 
I  know  by  that  brightly  flashing  eye, 
That,  maiden,  there's  that  within  thy  breast, 
Which  hath  marked  thee  out  for  a  soul  unblest : 
The  strife  of  love  with  pride  shall  wring 
Thy  youthful  bosom's  tenderest  string  ; 
And  the  cup  of  sorrow,  mingled  for  thee, 
Shall  be  drained  to  the  dregs  in  agony. 
Yes,  maiden,  yes,  I  read  in  thine  eye 
A  dark  and  a  doubtful  prophecy. 
Thou  shalt  love,  and  that  love  shall  be  thy  curse : 
Thou  wilt  need  no  heavier,  thou  shalt  feel  no  worse. 
I  see  the  cloud  and  the  tempest  near ; 
The  voice  of  the  troubled  tide  I  hear ; 
10 


146  THE    PROPHECY. 

The  torrent  of  sorrow,  the  sea  of  grief, 
The  rushing  waves  of  a  wretched  life. 
Thy  bosom's  bark  on  the  surge  I  see, 
And,  maiden,  thy  loved  one  is  there  with  thee. 
Not  a  star  in  the  heavens,  not  a  light  on  the  wave ! 
Maiden,  I've  gazed  on  thine  early  grave. 
When  I  am  cold,  and  the  hand  of  Death 
Hath  crowned  my  brow  with  an  icy  wreath, 
When  the  dew  hangs  damp  on  this  motionless  lip, 
When  this  eye  is  closed  in  its  long  last  sleep, 
Then,  maiden,  pause,  when  thy  heart  beats  high, 
And  think  on  my  last  sad  prophecy. 


PROPHECY  II. 

TO   ANOTHER   LADY. 

I  HAVE  told  a  maiden  of  hours  of  grief, 

Of  a  bleeding  heart,  of  a  joyless  life  ; 

I  have  read  her  a  tale  of  future  woe  ; 

I  have  marked  her  a  pathway  of  sorrow  below ; 

I  have  read  on  the  page  of  her  blooming  cheek 

A  darker  doom  than  my  tongue  dare  speak. 

Now,  maiden,  for  thee,  I  will  turn  mine  eye 

To  a  brighter  path  through  futurity. 

The  clouds  shall  pass  from  thy  brow  away, 

And  bright  be  the  closing  of  life's  long  day ; 

The  storms  shall  murmur  in  silence  to  sleep, 

And  angels  around  thee  their  watches  shall  keep. 

Thou  shalt  live  in  the  sunbeams  of  love  and  delight, 

And  thy  life  shall  flow  on  till  it  fades  into  night ; 

And  the  twilight  of  age  shall  come  quietly  on  ; 

Thou   wilt    feel,    yet    regret    not,    that    daylight    hath 

flown : 

For  the  shadows  of  evening  shall  melt  o'er  thy  soul, 
And  the  soft  dreams  of  heaven  around  thee  shall  roll, 
Till  sinking  in  sweet,  dreamless  slumber  to  rest, 
In  the  arms  of  thy  loved  one,  still  blessing  and  blest, 
Thy  soul  shall  glide  on  to  its  harbor  in  heaven, 
Every  tear  wiped  away,  every  error  forgiven. 


PROPHECY  III. 

TO   ANOTHER   LADY. 

WILT  thou  rashly  unveil  the  dark  volume  of  fate  ? 
It  is  open  before  thee :  repentance  is  late,  — 
Too  late  !  for,  behold  o'er  the  dark  page  of  woe 
Move  the  days  of  thy  grief,  yet  unnumbered  below. 
There  is  one  whose  sad  destiny  mingles  with  thine : 
He  was  formed  to  be  happy  —  he  dared  to  repine  ; 
And  jealousy  mixed  in  his  brigHt  cup  of  bliss, 
And  the  page  of  his  fate  grew  still  darker  than  this. 
He  gazed  on  thee,  maiden,  he  met  thee,  and    passed ; 
But  better  for  thee  had  the  Siroc's  fell  blast 
Swept  by  thee,  and  wasted  and  faded  thee  there, 
So  youthful,  so  happy,  so  thoughtless,  so  fair. 
And  mark  ye  his  broad  brow  ?  'tis  noble ;  'tis  high ; 
And  mark  ye  the  flash  of  his  dark,  eagle-eye  ? 
When    the    wide   wheels    of    time    have    encircled   the 

world, 

When  the  banners  of  night  in  the  sky  are  unfurled, 
Then,  maiden,  remember  the  tale  I  have  told, 
For  further  I  may  not,  I  dare  not  unfold. 
The  rose  on  yon  dark  page  is  sear  and  decayed, 
And  thus,  e'en  in  youth,  shall  thy  fondest  hopes  fade ; 
Tis  an  emblem  of  thee,  broken,  withered,  and  pale  — 
Nay,  start    not,    and   blanch    not,  though   dark   be  the 

tale  : 


PROPHECY  III. 


149 


An  hour-glass  half  spent,  and  a  tear-bedewed  token, 
A  heart  withered,  wasted,  and  bleeding  and  broken, 
All  these  are  the  emblems  of  sorrow  to  be ; 
I  will  veil  the  page,  maiden,  in  pity  to  thee. 


FEATS    OF    DEATH. 

I  HAVE  passed  o'er  the  earth  in  the  darkness  of  night, 
I  have  walked  the  wild  winds  in  the   morning's   broad 

light  ; 
I    have  paused    o'er   the    bower   where    the    infant  lay 

sleeping, 
And  I've  left  the  fond  mother  in  sorrow  and  weeping. 

My  pinion  was  spread,  and  the  cold  dew  of  night, 
Which  withers  and  moulders  the  flower  in  its  light, 
Fell  silently  o'er  the  warm  cheek  in  its  glow, 
And  I  left  it  there  blighted,  and  wasted,  and  low ; 
I  culled  the  fair  bud,  as  it  danced  in  its  mirth, 
And  I  left  it  to  moulder  and  fade  on  the  earth. 

I  paused  o'er  the  valley ;  the  glad  sounds  of  joy 
Rose  soft  through  the  mist,  and  ascended  on  high  ; 
The  fairest  were  there,  and  I  paused  in  my  flight, 
And  the  deep  cry  of  wailing  broke  wildly  that  night. 

I  stay  not  to  gather  the  lone  one  to  earth, 
I  spare  not  the  young  in  their  gay  dance  of  mirth, 
But  I  sweep  them  all  on  to  their  home  in  the  grave  ; 
I  stop  not  to  pity  —  I  stay  not  to  save. 

I  paused  in  my  pathway,  for  beauty  was  there  : 
It  was  beauty  too  death-like,  too  cold,  and  too  fair! 


FEATS    OF  DEATH.  151 

The  deep  purple  fountain  seemed  melting  away, 
And  the  faint  pulse  of  life  scarce  remembered  to  play  ; 
She  had  thought  on  the  tomb,  she  was  waiting  for  me : 
I  gazed,  I  passed  on,  and   her  spirit  was  free. 

The  clear  stream  rolled  gladly,  and  bounded  along, 
With  ripple,  and  murmur,  and  sparkle,  and  song  ; 
The  minstrel  was  tuning  his  wild  harp  to  love, 
And  sweet  and  half  sad  were  the  numbers  he  wove. 
I  passed,  and  the  harp  of  the  bard  was  unstrung  ; 
O'er    the    stream  which    rolled  deeply,  'twas  recklessly 

hung  ; 

The  minstrel  was  not !  and  I  passed  on  alone, 
O'er     the     newly   raised    turf   and    the    rudely   carved 

stone. 


AUCTION  EXTRAORDINARY. 

I  DREAMED  a  dream  in  the  midst  of  my  slumbers, 

And  as  fast  as  I  dreamed  it,  it  came  into  numbers  ; 

My  thoughts  ran  along  in  such  beautiful  metre, 

I'm  sure  I  ne'er  saw  any  poetry  sweeter. 

It  seemed  that  a  law  had  been  recently  made 

That  a  tax  on  old  bachelors'  pates  should  be  laid  ; 

And  in  order  to  make  them  all  willing  to  marry, 

The  tax  was  as  large  as  a  man  could  well  carry. 

The  bachelors  grumbled,  and  said  'twas  no  use  ; 

'Twas  horrid  injustice  and  horrid  abuse  ; 

And    declared    that,    to    save    their    own    hearts'-blood 

from  spilling, 

Of  such  a  vile  tax  they  would  not  pay  a  shilling. 
But  the  rulers  determined  them  still  to  pursue, 
So  they  set  the  old  bachelors  up  at  vendue. 
A  crier  was  sent  through  the  town  to  and  fro, 
To  rattle  his  bell,  and  his  trumpet  to  blow, 
And  to  call  out  to  all  he  might  meet  in  his  way, 
"Ho!  forty  old  bachelors  sold  here  to-day!" 
And  presently  all  the  old  maids  in  the  town, 
Each  in  her  very  best  bonnet  and  gown, 
From  thirty  to  sixty,  fair,  plain,  red,  and  pale, 
Of  every  description,  all  flocked  to  the  sale : 
The  auctioneer  then  in  his  labor  began, 
And  called  out  aloud,  as  he  held  up  a  man, 


A  UCT20N   EXTRA  ORDINAR  Y. 


153 


"How  much  for  a  bachelor?  who  wants  to  buy?" 

In  a  twink,*  every  maiden  responded,  "I,  —  I ; " 

In  short,  at  a  highly  extravagant  price, 

The  bachelors  all  were  sold  off  in  a  trice  ; 

And  forty  old  maidens,  some  younger,  some  older, 

Each  lugged  an  old  bachelor  home  on  her  shoulder. 

*  "  That  in  a  twink  she  won  me  to  her  love."  — Shakespeare.  —  [ED.] 


THE    "GUARDIAN    ANGEL." 

TO     MISS     E.     C.  —  COMPOSED      ON     A     BLANK      LEAF     OF     HER     "  PALEY," 
DURING     RECITATION. 

I'M  thy  guardian  angel,  sweet  maid,  and  I  rest 
In  mine  own  chosen  temple,  thy  innocent  breast ; 
At  midnight  I  steal  from  my  sacred  retreat, 
When  the  chords  of  thy  heart  in  soft  unison  beat. 

When  thy  bright  eye  is  closed,  when  thy  dark  tresses 

flow 
In  beautiful  wreaths  o'er  thy  pillow  of  snow, 

0  then  I  watch  o'er  thee,  all  pure  as  thou  art, 
And  listen  to  music  which  steals  from  thy  heart. 

Thy  smile  is  the  sunshine  which  gladdens  my  soul, 
My  tempest  the  clouds  which  around  thee  may  roll ; 

1  feast  my  light  form  on  thy  rapture-breathed  sighs, 
And  drink  at  the  fount  of  those  beautiful  eyes. 

The  thoughts  of  thy  heart  are  recorded  by  me  ; 
There    are    some  which,  half   breathed,    half  acknowl 
edged  by  thee, 

Steal  sweetly  and  silently  o'er  thy  pure  breast, 
Just  ruffling  its  calmness,  then  murmuring  to  rest. 

Like  a  breeze  o'er  the  lake,  when  it  breathlessly  lies, 
With    its    own    mimic    mountains,    and    star-spangled 
skies, 


THE    GUARDIAN  ANGEL.  155 

I  stretch  my  light  pinions  around  thee  when  sleeping 
To  guard  thee  from  spirits  of  sorrow  and  weeping. 

I  breathe  o'er  thy  slumbers  sweet  dreams  of  delight, 
Till  you  wake  but  to  sigh  for  the  visions  of  night. 
Then  remember,  wherever  your  pathway  may  lie, 
Be  it  clouded  with  sorrow,  or  brilliant  with  joy, 
My  spirit  shall  watch  thee,  wherever  thou  art, 
My  incense  shall  rise  from  the  throne  of  thy  heart. 
Farewell !  for  the  shadows  of  evening  are  fled, 
And    the   young    rays  of  morning  are  wreathed  round 
my  head. 


TO   THE   VERMONT   CADETS. 

PASS  on  !  for  the  bright  torch  of  glory  is  beaming  ; 
Go,   wreathe    round   your    brows    the    green  laurels 

of  fame  ; 

» 

Around  you  a  halo  is  brilliantly  streaming, 
And  history  lingers  to  write  down  each  name. 

Yes  !  ye  are  the  pillars  of  liberty's  throne ; 

When  around  you  the  banner  of  glory  shall  wave, 
America  proudly  shall  claim  you  her  own, 

And  freedom  and  honor  shall  pause  o'er  each  grave ! 

A  watch-fire  of  glory,  a  beacon  of  light, 
Shall  guide  you  to  honor,  shall  point  you  to  fame : 

The  heart  that  shrinks  back,  be  it  buried    in   night, 
And  withered  with  dim  tears  of  sorrow  and  shame ! 

Though  death  should  await  you,  'twere  glorious  to  die 
With  the  glow  of  pure  honor  still  warm  on  the  brow ; 
With  a  light  sparkling  brightly  around  the  dim  eye, 
Like  the  smile  of  a  spirit  still  ling'ring  below. 

Pass  on,  and  when  War  in  his  strength  shall   arise, 

Rush  on  to  the  conflict,  and  conquer  or  die ; 
Let  the  clash  of  your  arms    proudly  roll   to  the  skies : 
.    Be  blest  if  victorious  —  and  cursed,  if  you  fly  ! 


TO    MY    FRIEND    AND    PATRON. 

M K ,    ESQ. 

AND  can  my  simple  harp  be  strung 
To  higher  theme,  to  nobler  end, 

Than  that  of  gratitude  to  thee, 

To  thee,  my  father  and  my  friend  ? 

I  may  not,  cannot,  will  not  say 

All  that  a  grateful  heart  would  breathe  ; 
But  I  may  frame  a  simple  lay, 

Nor  Slander  blight  the  blushing  wreath. 

Yes,  I  will  touch  the  string  to  thee, 
Nor  fear  its  wildness  will  offend  ; 

For  well  I  know  that  thou  wilt  be 

What  thou  hast  ever  been,  —  a  friend. 

There  are,  whose  cold  and  idle  gaze 

Would  freeze  the  current  where  it  flows  ; 

But  Gratitude  shall  guard  the  fount, 
And  Faith  shall  light  it  as  it  flows. 

Then  tell  me,  may  I  dare  to  twine, 
While  o'er  my  simple  harp  I  bend, 

This  little  offering  for  thee, 

For  thee,  my  father    and  my  friend  ? 


MORNING. 

I  COME  in  the  breath  of  the  wakened  breeze  ; 
I  kiss  the  flowers,  and  I  bend  the  trees  ; 
And  I  shake  the  dew  which  hath  fallen  by  night, 
From  its  throne  on  the  lily's  pure  bosom  of  white. 
Awake  thee,  when  bright  from  my  couch  in  the  sky 
I  beam  o'er  the  mountains,  and  come  from  on   high  ; 
When  my  gay  purple  banners  are  waving  afar ; 
When   my  herald,  gray  dawn,   hath   extinguished   each 

star  ; 
When    I    smile    on    the  woodlands,  and    bend  o'er  the 

lake, 

Then  awake  thee,  O  maiden,  I  bid  thee  awake  ! 
Thou    mayst    slumber   when    all    the   wide    arches    of 

heaven 

Glitter  bright  with  the  beautiful  fire  of  even  ; 
When    the    moon  walks    in    glory,  and    looks   from  on 

high, 
O'er    the    clouds  floating    far    through    the   clear  azure 

sky, 

Drifting  on  like  the  beautiful  vessels  of  heaven, 
To  their  far-away  harbor  all  silently  driven, 
Bearing  on,  in  their  bosoms,  the  children  of  light, 
Who    have   fled    from    this    dark  world  of  sorrow  and 

night ; 
When    the   lake    lies    in    calmness    and  darkness,  save 

where 
The  bright  ripple  curls,  'neath  the  smile  of  a  star  ; 


MORNING. 


159 


When  all  is  in  silence  and  solitude  here, 

Then  sleep,  maiden,  sleep !  without  sorrow  or  fear ! 

But  when  I  steal  silently  over  the  lake, 

Awake  thee  then,  maiden,  awake  !  O,  awake ! 


TO    A    FRIEND, 

WHOM   I   HAD   NOT   SEEN   SINCE  MY  CHILD  HOOD. 

AND  thou  hast  marked,  in  childhood's  hour, 
The  fearless  boundings  of  my  breast, 

When,  fresh  as  Summer's  opening  flower, 
I  freely  frolicked,  and  was  blessed. 

O !  say,  was  not  this  eye  more  bright  ? 

Were  not  these  lips  more  wont  to  smile  ? 
Methinks  that  then  my  heart  was  light, 

And  I  a  fearless,  joyous  child. 

And  thou  didst  mark  me  gay  and  wild, 
My  careless,  reckless  laugh  of  mirth ;         , 

The  simple  pleasure  of  a  child, 
The  holiday  of  man  on  earth. 

Then  thou  hast  seen  me  in  that  hour 
When  every  nerve  of  life  was  new, 

When  pleasures  fanned  youth's  infant  flower, 
And  Hope  her  witcheries  round  it  threw. 

That  hour  is  fading,  —  it  has  fled, 
And  I  am  left  in  darkness  now  ; 

A  wanderer  towards  a  lowly  bed, 
The  grave,  that  home  of  all  below. 


MODESTY. 

THERE  is  a  sweet,  though  humble  flower, 
Which  grows  in  nature's  wildest  bed  ; 

It  blossoms  in  the  lonely  bower, 

But  withers  'neath  the  gazer's  tread. 

'Tis  reared  alone,  far,  far  away 

From  the  wild  noxious  weeds  of  death  ; 
Around  its  brow  the  sunbeams  play, 

The   evening  dew-drop  is  its  wreath. 

'Tis  Modesty  ;  'tis  Nature's  child  ; 

The   loveliest,  sweetest,  meekest  flower 
That  ever  blossomed  in  the  wild, 

Or  trembled  'neath  the  evening  shower. 

'Tis  Modesty  ;  so  pure,  so  fair, 

That  woman's  witcheries  lovelier  grow, 

When  that  sweet  flower  is  blooming  there, 
The  brightest  beauty  of  her  brow. 


11 


THE    YELLOW    FEVER. 

THE  sky  is  pure,  the  clouds  are  light, 

The  moonbeams  glitter  cold  and  bright  ; 

O'er  the  wide  landscape  breathes  no  sigh  ; 

The  sea  reflects  the  star-gemmed  sky, 

And  every  beam  of  heaven's  broad  brow 

Glows  brightly  on  the  world  below. 

But  ah  !  the  wing  of  death  is  spread  ; 

I  hear  the  midnight  murderers'    tread  ; 

I  hear  the  Plague  that  walks  at  night, 

I  mark  its  pestilential  blight ; 

I  feel  its  hot  and  withering  breath, 

It  is  the  messenger  of  death ! 

And  can  a  scene  so  pure  and  fair 

Slumber  beneath  a  baneful  air  ? 

And  can  the  stealing  form  of  death 

Here  wither  with  its  blighting  breath  ? 

Yes  ;  and  the  slumberer  feels  its  power 

At  midnight's  dark  and  silent  hour. 

He  feels  the  wild-fire  through  his  brain  ; 

He  wakes  ;  his  frame  is  racked  with  pain  ; 

His  eye  half  closed  ;  his  lip  is  dark ; 

The  sword  of  death  hath  done  his  work  ! 

That  sallow  cheek,  that  fevered  lip, 

That  eye  which  burns  but  cannot  sleep, 

That  black  parched  tongue,  that  raging  brain, 

All  mark  the  monarch's  baleful  reign  ! 


THE    YELLOW  FEVER. 

O  !  for  one  pure,  one  balmy  breath, 
To  cool  the  sufferer's  brow  in  death ; 
O !  for  one  wandering  breeze  of  heaven  ; 
O  that  one  moment's  rest  were  given ! 
'Tis  past ;  and  hushed  the  victim's  prayer ; 
The  spirit  was  —  but  is  not  there  ! 


163 


RUINS  OF  PALMYRA. 

PALMYRA,  where  art  thou,  all  dreary  and  lone  ? 

The    breath    of    thy   fame,    like    the    night-wind,    hath 

flown  : 

O'er  thy  temples,  thy  minarets,  towers,  and  halls 
The  dark  veil  of  oblivion  silently  falls. 

The  sands  of  the  desert  sweep  by  thee  in  pride, 
They  curl   round  thy  brow,  like  the  foam  of  the  tide, 
And    soon,    like    the    mountain     stream's    wild-rolling 

wave, 
Will  rush  o'er,  and  wrap  thee  at  once  in  thy  grave. 

O,  where  are  the  footsteps  which  once  gayly  flew 
O'er    pavements   where    now   weep    the   foxglove    and 

yew  ? 

O,  where  are  the  voices  which  once  gayly  sung, 
While  the  lofty-browed  domes  with  melody  rung  ? 

They    are   silent ;    and    naught  breaks    the    chaos    of 

death  ; 

Not  a  being  now  treads  o'er  the  ivy's  dull  wreath, 
Save  the  raging  hyena,  whose  terrible  cry 
Echoes  loud  through  the  halls  and  the   palaces  high. 


RUINS  OF  PALMYRA. 


165 


Thou  art  fallen,  Palmyra !  and  never  to  rise, 

Thou  "  queen  of   the    east,    thou    bright    child    of   the 

skies  !  " 

Thou  art  lonely ;  the  desert  around  thee  is  wide  ; 
Then  haste  to  its  arms,  nor  remember  thy  pride. 

Thou  art  forgotten,  Palmyra !  return  thee  to  earth  ; 
And  great  be  thy  fall,  as  was  stately  thy  birth  ; 
With  grandeur  then  bow  'neath  the  pinion  of  time, 
And  sink,  not  in  splendor,  but  sadly  sublime. 


THE   WIDE   WORLD   IS   DREAR. 

O  SAY  not  the  wide  world  is  lonely  and  dreary ! 

O  say  not  that  life  is  a  wilderness  waste ! 
There's  ever  some  comfort  in  store  for  the  weary, 

And  there's  ever  some  hope  for  the  sorrowful  breast. 

There    are    often    sweet    dreams  which  will   steal  o'er 

the  soul, 

Beguiling  the  mourner  to  smile  through  a  tear, 
That,   when   waking,  the    dew-drops    of    mem'ry    may 

fall, 
And  blot  out,  forever,    "the  wide  world  is  drear." 

There  is  hope  for  the  lost,  for  the  lone  one's  relief, 
Which   will   beam   o'er   his   pathway  of  danger    and 

fear ; 
There  is   pleasure's  wild   throb,  and  the  calm  "joy    of 

grief," 
O  then  say  not  the  wide  world  is  lonely  and  drear! 

There  are  fears  that  are  anxious,  yet  sweet  to  the 
breast, 

Some  feelings,  which  language  ne'er  told  to  the  ear, 
Which  return  to  the  heart,  and  there  lingering  rest, 

Soft  whispering,  this  world   is   not  lonely  and  drear. 


THE    WIDE    WORLD  IS  DREAR.  167 

Tis  true    that  the  dreams  of  the  evening  will  fade, 
When    reason's    broad    sunbeam    shines    calmly    and 
clear  ; 

Still  fancy,  sweet  fancy,  will  smile  o'er  the  shade, 
And  say  that  the  world  is  not  lonely  and  drear. 

O  then  mourn  not  that  life  is  a  wilderness  waste  ! 

That  each  hope  is  illusive,  each  prospect  is  drear, 
But  remember  that  man,  undeserving,  is  blest, 

And  rewarded  with  smiles  for  the  fall  of  a  tear. 


FAREWELL  TO  MISS  E.  B. 

FAREWELL,  and  whenever  calm  solitude's  hour 
Shall  silently  spread  its  broad  wings  o'er   your   bower, 
O  !  then  gaze  on  yon  planet,  yon  watch-fire  divine, 
And    believe    that    my   soul    is    there    mingling   with 
thine. 

When    the    dark    brow    of    evening    is  beaming    with 

stars, 

And  yon  crest  of  light  clouds  is  the  turban  she  wears, 
When    she  walks  forth    in    grandeur,  the  queen  of  the 

night, 
O  !  then  think  that  my  spirit  looks  on  with  delight. 

O'er  the  ocean  of  life  our  frail  vessels  are  bounding, 
And  danger  and  death  our  dark  pathway  surrounding  ; 
Destruction's  bright  meteors  are  dancing  before, 
And  behind  us  the  winds  of  adversity  roar. 

O !    then    come,  let  us    light  friendship's    lamp   on  the 

wave  : 

If  we're  lost,  it  will  shed  its  pure  light  o'er  the  grave, 
Or  'twill  guide  to  the  haven  of  Heaven  at  last, 
And    beam    on    when    the    voice  of  the   trumpet  hath 

passed. 


DEATH. 

THE  destroyer  cometh  ;  his  footstep  is  light, 
He  marketh  the  threshold  of  sorrow  at  night  ; 
He  steals  like  a  thief  o'er  the  fond  one's  repose, 
And  chills  the  warm  tide  from    the   heart  as  it    flows. 

His  throne  is  the  tomb,  and  a  pestilent  breath 
Walks  forth  on  the  night-wind,  the  herald  of  death  ; 
His  couch  is  the  bier,  and  the  dark  weeds  of  woe 
Are  the  curtains  which  shroud  joy's  deadliest  foe. 


A    VIEW    OF    DEATH. 

WHEN  bending  o'er  the  brink  of  life, 

My  trembling  soul  shall  stand, 
Waiting  to  pass  death's  awful  flood, 

Great  God !  at  thy  command  ; 

When  weeping  friends  surround  my  bed, 

To  close  my  sightless  eyes  ; 
When  shattered  by  the  weight  of  years 

This  broken  body  lies  ; 

When  every  long-loved  scene  of  life 

Stands  ready  to  depart ; 
When  the  last  sigh  which  shakes  this  frame, 

Shall  rend  this  bursting  heart, — 

O  Thou  great  source  of  joy  supreme, 

Whose  arm  alone  can  save, 
Dispel  the  darkness  that  surrounds 

The  entrance  to  the  grave. 

Lay  thy  supporting,  gentle  hand 

Beneath  my  sinking  head, 
And  with  a  ray  of  love  divine 

Illume  my  dying-bed. 


A    VIEW  OF  DEATH. 


171 


Leaning  on  thy  dear,  faithful  breast, 
I  would  resign  my  breath, 

And  in  thy  loved  embraces  lose 
The  bitterness  of  death. 


ROB   ROY'S    REPLY  TO  FRANCIS  OSBALDISTONE. 

THE  heather  I  trod  while  breathing  on  earth, 

Must  bloom  o'er  my  grave  in  the  land  of  my  birth  ; 

My    warm    heart    would    shrink   like    the    fern    in   the 

frost, 
If  the  tops  of  my  hills  to  my  dim  eyes  were  lost. 


ON  THE 
DEATH  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL  MRS.  *****. 

I  SAW  her  when  life's   tide  was  high, 
When  youth  was  hov'ring  o'er  her  brow, 

When  joy  was  dancing  in  her  eye, 

And  her  cheek  blushed  hope's  crimson  glow. 

I  saw  her  'mid  a  fairy  throng 

She  seemed  the  gayest  of  the  gay  ; 

I  saw  her  lightly  glide  along 

'Neath  beauty's  smile  and  pleasure's  lay. 

I  saw  her  in  her  bridal  robe  ; 

The  blush  of  joy  was  mounting  high  ; 
I  marked  her  bosom's  heaving  throb, 

I  marked  her  dark  and  downcast  eye. 

I  saw  her  when  a  mother's  love 

Asked  at  her  hand  a  mother's  care  ; 

She  looked  an  angel  from  above, 
Hovering  round  a  cherub  fair. 

I  saw  her  not  till,  cold  and  pale, 
She  slumbered  on  Death's  icy  arm  ; 

The  rose  had  faded  on  her  cheek, 
Her  lip  had  lost  its  power  to  charm. 


174      DEATH    OF    THE    BEAUTIFUL    MRS.   *  *  *  *  * 

That  eye  was  dim  which  brightly  shone  ; 

That  brow  was  cold  ;  that  heart  was  still  ; 
The  witcheries  of  that  form  had  flown  ; 

The  lifeless  clay  had  ceased  to  feel. 

I  saw  her  wedded  to  the  grave  ; 

Her  bridal  robes  were  weeds  of  death ; 
And  o'er  her  pale,  cold  brow  was  hung 
The  damp  sepulchral  icy  wreath. 


TO    MY    DEAR    MOTHER    IN    SICKNESS. 

HANG  not  thy  harp  upon  the  willow  ; 

Mourn  not  a  brighter,  happier  day  : 
But  touch  the  chord,  and  life's  wild  billow 

Will,  shrinking,  foam  its  shame  away. 

Then  strike  the  chord  and  raise  the  strain 
Which  brightens  that  dark  clouded  brow ; 

O  !  beam  one  sunshine  smile  again, 
And  I'll  forgive  thy  sadness  now. 

Though  darkness,  gloom,  and  doubt  surround  thee, 
Thy  bark,  though  frail,  shall  safely  ride  ; 

The  storm  and  whirlwind  may  rage  round  thee, 
But  thou  wilt  all  their  wrath  abide. 

Hang  not  thy  harp  upon  the  willow 
Which  weeps  o'er  every  passing  wave  ; 

Though  life  is  but  a  restless  pillow, 
There's  calm  and  peace  beyond  the  grave. 


KINDAR  BURIAL  SERVICE. 
VERSIFIED. 

WE  commend  our  brother  to  thee,  O  earth ! 

To  thee  he  returns,  from  thee  was  his  birth  ! 

Of  thee  was  he  formed,  he  was  nourished   by  thee  ; 

Take  the  body,  O  earth !   the  spirit  is  free. 

O    air !    he    once    breathed    thee,    through    thee    he 

survived, 

And  in  thee  and  with  thee  his  pure  spirit  lived  ; 
That  spirit  hath  fled,  and  we  yield  him  to  thee  ; 
His  ashes  be  spread,  like  his  soul,  far  and  free. 

O  fire !  we  commit  his  dear  relics  to  thee, 
Thou  emblem  of  purity,  spotless  and  free  ; 
May  his  soul,  like  thy  flames,  bright  and  burning 

arise 
To  its   mansion  of  bliss,  in   the   star-spangled  skies. 

O  water !  receive  him  ;  without  thy  kind  aid 

He    had    parched  'neath    the   sunbeams  or  mourned 

in  the  shade ; 

Then  take  of  his  body  the  share  which  is  thine, 
For  the  spirit  hath  fled  from  its  mouldering  shrine. 


THE    GRAVE. 

THERE  is  a  spot  so  still  and  dreary, 
It  is  a  pillow  to  the  weary  ; 
It  is  so  solemn  and  so  lone, 
That  grief  forgets  to  heave  a  groan. 

There  life's  storms  can  enter  never  ; 
There  'tis  dark  and  lonely  ever ; 
The  mourner  there  shall  seek  repose, 
And  there  the  wanderer's  journey  close. 


THE     ARMY     OF      ISRAEL     AT     THE     FOOT     OF 
MOUNT     SINAI. 

THEIR   spears    glittered    bright    in    the   beams    of    the 

sun  ; 
Their     banners    waved    far,    and     their    high    helmets 

shone  ; 
And   their   dark   plumes  were  tossed  on  the  breast  of 

the  breeze, 
But  the  war-trumpet  slumbered  the   slumber  of  peace. 

He  came  in  his  glory,  He  came  in  his    might, 
His  chariot  the  cloud,  and  his  sceptre  the  light ; 
The  sound  of   his  coming  was  heard  from  afar, 
Like  the  roar  of  a  nation  when  rushing  to  war. 

'Twas  the  great  God  of  Israel,  riding  on  high, 
Whose    footstool    is    earth,    and  whose    throne    is    the 

sky  ; 

He  stood  in  his  glory,  unseen  and  alone, 
And  with  letters  of  fire  traced  the  tablets  of  stone. 

The  eagle  may  soar  to  the  sun  in  his  might, 
And  the  eye  of  the  warrior  flash  fierce  in  the  fight ; 
But  say,  who  may  look  upon  God  the  Most  High  ? 
O  Israel !  turn  back  from  his  glory,  or  die. 


ARMY  OF  ISRAEL   AT  THE  FOOT  OF  MOUNT  SINAI.  179 

The  sun  in  its  splendor,  the  fire  in  its  might, 

Which    devours     and    withers,    and    wastes    from    the 

sight, 

<•    Is  dim  to  the  glory  which  beams  from  his  eye  ; 
Then,  Israel,  turn  back  —  O  !  return,  or  ye  die. 


THE    GARDEN   OF    GETHSEMANE. 

GETHSEMANE  !  there's  holy  blood 
Upon  thy  green  and  waving  brow ; 

Gethsemane !  a  God  hath  stood, 
And  o'er  thy  branches  bended  low ! 

There  drops  of  agony  have  hung 
Mingled  with  blood  upon  his  brow ; 

For  sin  his  bosom  there  was  wrung, 
And  there  it  bled  for  human  woe. 

There,  in  the  darkest  hour  of  night, 
Alone  He  watched,  alone  He  prayed  ; 

Didst  thou  not  tremble  at  the  sight  ? 
A  God  reviled !   a  God  betrayed ! 

Gethsemane !  so  dark  a  scene 

Ne'er  blotted  the  wide  book  of  time ! 

Oblivion's  veil  can  never  screen 
So  dark  a  deed,  so  black  a  crime! 


THE    TEMPEST    GOD. 

HARK  !  'tis  the  wheels  of  his  wide-rolling  car  ; 
They  traverse  the  heavens  and  come  from  afar ; 
Sublime  and  majestic  the  dark  cloud  he  rides, 
The  wing  of  the  whirlwind  he  fearlessly  strides, 
The  glance  of  his   eye   is  the   lightning's  broad  flame, 
And  the  caverns  reecho  his  terrible  name. 

In  the  folds  of  his  pinions  the  wild  whirlwinds  sleep ; 
At  his  bidding  they  rush  o'er  the  foam  of  the  deep  ; 
He  speaks,  and  in  whispers  they  murmur  to  rest, 
And  calmly  they  sink  on  the  folds  of  his  breast ; 
His  seat  is  the  mountain-top's  loftiest  height ; 
He  reigns  there  in  darkness,  the  king  of  the  night. 


TO    A    DEPARTING    FRIEND. 

FAREWELL,  and  may  some  angel  guide, 
Some  viewless  spirit  hover  o'er  thee  ; 

Who,  let  or  weal  or  woe  betide, 

Will  still  unchanging  'move  before  thee. 

A  hallowed  light  shall  burn  at  night, 
When  sorrow's  wave  rolls  drearily, 

And  o'er  thy  way  a  cloud  by  day 
Shall  cast  its  shadow  cheerily. 

Thy  bark  of  pleasure  o'er  life's  smooth  sea 

Shall  gallantly  glide  along ; 
Prayers  and  blessings  thy  breezes  shall  be, 

And  hope  be  thy  parting  song. 

Go  then ;  I  have  given  the  spirits  charge 
To  watch  o'er  thee  now  and  forever ; 

To  smooth  life's  waters,  and  guide  thy  barge 
Where  tempest  shall  toss  it  never. 


MARITORNE;   OR,    THE    PIRATE    OF    MEXICO. 

ON  Barritaria's  brow  the  watch-fires  glow, 

Their  beacons  beaming  on  the  Gulf  below, 

As  if  to  dare  some  death-devoted  hand 

To  quench  in  blood  the  boldly  blazing  brand  ; 

Some  Orlean  herald  armed  with  threat'ning  high 

To  daunt  the  Pirate  Chieftain's  haughty  eye, 

To  bid  him  bend  to  tame  and  vulgar  law, 

And  bow  to  painted  things  with  trembling  awe. 

Such  herald  well  may  come,    but  woe  betide 

The  self-devoted  messenger  of  pride  ! 

Such  herald  well  may  come,  but  far  and  near 

The  name  of  Maritorne  is  joined  with  fear  ; 

His  vessels  proudly  ride  the  Gulf  at  will, 

Whilst  he  is  Chief  of  Barritaria's  Isle. 

The  iron  hand  of  power  is  raised  in  vain, 

Whilst  Maritorne  is  master  of  the  main. 

'Tis  his  to  sacrifice,  'tis  his  to  spare  : 

He  moves  in  silence,  and  is  everywhere. 

His  victims  must  with  pompous  boldness  bleed, 

But  if  he  pities,  who  may  tell  the  deed  ? 

'Tis  done  in  secret,  that  no  eye  may  mark 

One  thought  more  gentle,  or  one  act  less  dark. 

And  he,  the  Governor  of  yon  fair  land, 

Whose  tongue   speaks  freedom,  but  whose  guilty  hand 


184       MARITORNE;   OR,    THE  PIRATE   OF  MEXICO. 

Grasps  the  half-loosened  manacles  again, 

And  adds,  unseen,  fresh  links  to  slavery's  chain ; 

Hated  full  deeply,  dreaded  and  abhorred, 

The  Pirate  Chief,  the  haughty  island  lord. 

And  cause  enough,  deep  hidden  in  his  breast, 

Had  he,  the  moody  leader  of  the  West, 

To  hate  that  fearful  man,  who  stood  alone 

Feared,  dreaded,  and  detested,  though  unknown. 

That  cause  was  smothered  or  burst  forth  to  light, 

Wreathed  in  the  incense  of  a  patriot's  right, 

To  drive  the  bold  intruder  from  the  shore, 

Where  war  and  bloodshed  must  appear  no  more ; 

But  deep  within  his  heart  the  crater  glowed 

From  whence  this  gilded  stream  of  lava  flowed  ; 

'Twas  wounded  pride,  which,  writhing  inly,  bled, 

And  called  for  vengeance  on  the  offender's  head  ; 

For  Maritorne,  with  bold,   unbending  brow, 

Had  scorned  his  power  —  that  were  enough;  but  lo 

There  on  the  very,  threshold  of  his  home, 

There  had  the  traitor  Pirate  dared  to  come, 

And  thence  had  borne  his  own,  his  only  child, 

Mate  all  unfit  for  Maritorne  the  wild ; 

And  when  the  maiden  cursed  him  in  her  breast, 

Those  curses  came  not  o'er  him,  —  he  was  blest : 

For  but  to  gaze  upon  her,  and  to  feel 

That  she  whom  he  adored  was  near  him  still, 

Was  bliss  !  was  heaven  itself !  and  he  whose  eye 

Bent  not  to  aught  of  dull  mortality, 

Shrunk  with  a  tremulous  delight  whene'er 

The  voice  of  Laura  rose  upon  his  ear  ; 

That  voice  had  power  to  quell  the  fiend  within, 

Whose  touch  had  turned  his  very  soul  to    sin. 


MARITORNE;   OR,    THE  PIRATE   OF  MEXICO.         185 

That  fiend  was  vengeance  ;    e'en  his  virtues  bowed 

Before  the  altar  which  to  vengeance   glowed. 

His  virtues  !   yes  ;  for  even  fiends  may  boast 

A  shadow  of  the  glory  they  have  lost. 

But  O  !  like  them,  his  crimes  were  dark  and  deep, 

For  vengeance  was  awake,  —  can  vengeance  sleep  ; 

Yes ;  sleep,  as  tigers  sleep,  with  half-shut  eye, 

Crouching  to  spring  upon  the  passer-by, 

With  parched  tongue  cleaving  to  his  blackened  cell, 

Stiff'ning  with  thirst,  and  jaws  which  hunger  fell 

Hath  sharply  whetted,  quivering  to  devour 

The  reckless  wretch  abandoned  to  his  power. 

Yes  :  thus  may  vengeance  sleep  in  breast  like  his, 

Where  thoughts  of  wild  revenge  are  thoughts  of  bliss. 

Thus  may  it  sleep,  like  ^Etna's  burning  breast, 

To  burst  in  thunders  when  'tis  dreaded  least ; 

For  his  had  been  the  joyless,  thankless  part 

Of  one  who  warmed  a  viper  at  his  heart, 

And  clasped  the  venomed  reptile  to  his  breast 

Till  wounded  by  the  ingrate  he  caressed. 

Such  had  been  Maritorne's  accursed  fate, 

Ere  he  became  the  hardened  child  of  hate. 

At  first,  his  breast  was  torn  with  anguish  wild ; 

He  cursed  himself,  then  bitterly  reviled 

The  world  as  hollow-hearted,  false,  unkind  ; 

He  cursed  himself,  and  doubly  cursed  mankind  ; 

And  then  his  heart  grew  callous,  and  like  steel 

Grasped  in  his  hand,  had  equal  power  to  feel. 

'Twas    like     yon    mountain    snow-crest,    chill    though 

bright, 
Cold  to  the  touch,  but  dazzling  to  the  sight, 


l86       MARITORNE;   OR,    THE   PIRATE    OF   MEXICO. 

Till  when  the  hour  of  darkness  gathers,  then 

The  sunbeam  fades,  the  ice  grows  dim  again. 

He  had  a  friend,  one  on  whom  fancy's  eye 

Had  deeply,  rashly  stamped  fidelity : 

Traitor  had    better   seemed  —  worm  — viper  —  aught  • 

The  vilest,  veriest  wretch  e'er  named  in  thought ; 

For  he  was  sin's  own  son,  and  all  that  e'er 

Angels  above  may  hate  or  mortals  fear. 

There  was  a  fascination  in  his  eye 

Which  those  who  felt,  might  seek  in  vain  to  fly. 

There  was  a  blasting  glance  of  mockery  there ; 

There  was  a  calm,  contemptuous,  biting  sneer 

Forever  on  his  lip,  which  made  men  fear, 

And,  fearing,  shun  him,  as  a  bird  will  shun 

A  gilded  bait,  though  glittering  in  the  sun  ; 

But  still  the  mask  of  friendship  he  could  wear  ; 

The  smile,  the  warm  professions  all  were  there  ; 

Let  him  who  trusts  to  these   alone,  beware ! 

A  lurking  devil  may  be  crouching  there. 

Shame  on  mankind  that  they  will  stoop  to  use 

Wiles  which  the  imps  of  darkness  would  refuse. 

Henceforth  let  friendship  drop  her  robes  of  light, 

And  following  desolation's  blasting  flight 


There  paced  the  Pirate  Chief  with  giant  stride, 

Deep  chorus  keeping  to  the  Mexic  tide  ; 

His  sable  plumes  were  hovering  o'er  his  brow, 

As  if  to  hide  the  depth  of  thought  below. 

He  paused  —  'twas  but  the  dashing  of  the  spray  ; 

Again !    'twas  but  the  night-watch  on  his  way. 


MARITORNE;   OR,    THE  PIRATE   OF  MEXICO.        i 

He  only  muttered,  gnashed  his  teeth,  and  smiled ; 

Fit  mirth  were  that,  so  ghastly  and  so  wild, 

To  grace  a  Pirate  Chieftain's   scornful  lip  ; 

'Twas  like  St.  Helmo's  night-fire  o'er  the  deep. 

The  beacon  blaze  is  burning  on  the  shore, 

But  burns  it  not  more  dimly  than  before  ? 

Perchance  the  drowsy  sentinel  is   sleeping, 

His  weary  vigils  negligently  keeping. 

So  thought  the  Chief,  but  still  his  wary  eye 

Was  fixed  intently  between  earth  and  sky, 

As  if  its  quick,  keen  glance  would  light  the  flame, 

And  blast  the  sleeper  with  remorse  and  shame. 

He  starts ;  suspicion  flashes  on  his  brain  — 

He  grasps  his  dagger  —  by  St.  Mark  —  again  ! 

His  bugle  brightly  glittered  on  his. breast; 

His  lip  the  gilded  bauble  gently  pressed  ; 

One  breath,  one  sigh,  and  rock  and  hill  and  sea 

Will  echo  back  the  warlike  minstrelsy. 

The  figure  which  had  slowly  passed  between 

Himself  and  yonder  blaze,  sank  where  'twas  seen, 

As  though  the  earth  had  gaped  with  sudden  yawn, 

And  drank  both  fire  and  form  in  silence  down ; 

The  beacon  was  extinguished,  rock  and  tree 

And  beetling  cliff,  and  wildly  foaming  sea, 

Were  hid  in  darkness,  for  the  deep  red  light 

Which  faintly  sketched  them  on  the  brow  of  night, 

Was  dim  as  was  the  moon's  pale  tremulous   glow, 

For  tempest-clouds  were  rallying  round  her   brow  ; 


1 88      MARITORNE;   OR,    THE  PIRATE   OF  MEXICO. 

The  sound  of  a  footstep  is  on  the  shore, 

It  dies  away  in  the  surge's  roar ; 

It  is  heard  again  as  the  angry  spray 

Rolls  back  and  foams  its  shame  away ; 

And  shrill  and  clear  was  the  call  of  alarm, — 

'Twas  like  the  breaking  of  spell  or  charm  ; 

It  screamed  o'er  the  dark  wave,  it  rose  to  the  hill. 

And  the  answering  echoes  reechoed  it  still. 

A  rushing  sound  as  of  coming  waves, 

A  glittering  band  as  if  burst  from  their  graves, 

Are  the  answers  which  wake  at  the  bidding  clear 

Of  him,  the  Lord  of  the  Isle  of  Fear. 

But  scarce  had  the  summons  in  silence  died, 

When  the  foot  which  had  waked  the  tumult  wide, 

Was  pressing  the  sand  where  it  yielding  gave 

To  the  lightest  tread  as  'twas  washed  by  the  wave  ; 

By  the  side  of  the  Pirate,  with  outstretched  hand, 

The  bold  intruder  looked  round  on  the  band  ; 

But  none  saw  the  face  of  that  being  save  he ; 

In  wonder  he  gazed  ;  in  his  eye  you  might  see 

Surprise,  and  shame,  and  a  fiend-like  gleam, 

Which  whispered  of  more  than  fear  might  dream  ; 

"  And  is  it  for  this  —  for  a  woman  like  thee  ? " 

He  angrily  muttered  and  turned  to  the  sea  — 

"  And  is  it  for  this  I  have  sounded  the  call 

Whose  notes  may  never  unanswered  fall  ; 

Whose  lowest  tone  is  the  knell  of  more 

Than  can  crowd  at  once  upon  Hell's  broad  shore  ? 

And  is  it  for  this  I  must  idly  stand 

To  trace  the  wave  with  my  sword  on  the  strand  ? 


MARITORNE;    OR,    THE   PIRATE   OF  MEXICO.       189 

Speak !    tell  me,  or  now,  by  the  blood  on  its  blade, 
I  will  give  to  that  pale  cheek  a  deadlier  shade." 
"The  beacon!  the  beacon!" — she  turned  to  the  spot, 
And  pointed  the  Chief  where  the  light  was  not. 
The  murmur  ran  through  the  waiting  crowd  ; 
It  was  loud  at  first,  but  it  grew  more  loud, 
Till  "  the  Beacon  !  the  Beacon  ! "    rang  on  to  the  sky, 
But  its  light  was  extinguished,  no  blaze  met  the   eye. 
"  Thus  much  for  the  moment ;    thy  honor  is   clear ; 
If  it  suffers,  then  look  for  thy  recompense  here ; " 
And    she    threw   back    her    mantle    and    gave    to    the 

light 

Which   glared  from  the  torches  all   flamingly  bright, 
A  form  which  e'en  Maritorne  marked  not  unmoved, 
But  'twas  one  which  he  did  not,  nor  ever  had  loved. 
"There  are  spies  who  are  waiting  in  ambush  for  thee^ 
I  marked  out  the  cavern  ;    'twas  near  to  the  sea ; 
They  are  few,  they  are  bold,  they  are   guided    by  one 
Who  has  sworn  ere  the  dawn  of  another  day's  sun 
To  lead  thee  in  triumph,  unwounded,    unharmed, 
To  yonder  proud  city  all  chained  and  unarmed  ; 
This  swears  he  by  all  that  is  sacred  to  do, 
I  heard  it  and  hastened  thus  breathless  to  you. 
For  pardon  I  sue  not ;  O  punish  my  crime  ! 
Here,  here  is  my  bosom,  and  now  is  the  time ! 
The  last  moment  beheld  me  imploring  for  breath, 
Now  'tis  not  worth  asking,  I  sue  but  for  death." 
The  ocean  was  roaring  too  loudly  to  hear 
The  words  she  was  speaking,  the  Chief  bent  his  ear ; 
His  dark  plume  was  resting  half  fearfully  there, 
Upon  the  white  brow  of  the  beautiful  Clare, 


I  go       MARITORNE;    OR    THE  PIRATE   OF  MEXICO. 

As  a  being  all  guilty  and  trembling  would   rest 
Self-accused,  self-condemned,  in  the  land  of  the   blest. 
And  he,  its  wild  wearer,  how  heard  he  the  tale  ? 
His  eye  flashed  the  darker,  his  lip  grew  more  pale ; 
But  when  it  was  finished  and  Clara  knelt  down, 
Where,    where    was    his    anger,    and    where    was    his 

frown  ? 

On  her  forehead  he  printed  a  passionate  kiss. 
"  O  Clara,  forgive  me !   remember  not  this, 
But  forget  not  that  thou,  and  thou  only,  shalt  know 
The  cause  of  my  madness,  my  guilt,  and  my  woe. 
If  I  fall,  thou  wilt  read  it  in  letters  of  blood 
'Neath    the    stone,  near    the    rock,  where    the  beacon- 
light  glowed  ; 

If  I  live,"  —  and  he  hastily  bowed  himself,  —  "  then 
The  Fiend  and  the  pirate  were  masters  again." 


A  light  is  on  the  waters,  and  the  dip 

Of  distant  oars  is  heard  from  steep  to  steep  : 

The  hum  of  voices  float  upon  the  air, 

Soft,  yet  distinct,  though  distant,  full  and  clear. 

Come  they  to  Barritaria's  Isle  as  midnight  foes  ? 

'Tis  well !    the  world  but  roughly  with  them  goes. 

Come  they  to  Barritaria's  Isle  to  join 

Their  traitor  arms,  proud  Maritorne,  with  thine  ? 

O,  better  had  they  never  left  yon  shore, 

To  which  they  may  return  again  no  more  ; 

Fools !   think  they  he  is  bleeding  in  a  strife 

Where  every  drop  writes  guilt  upon  his  life 

For  gold,  for  fame,  for  power,  for  aught  on  earth 


MAR1TORNE;    OR,    THE  PIRATE   OF  MEXICO.       19 

Which  vulgar  minds  might  think  were  richly  worth 

A  life  of  bloodshed  and  dishonor  ?     No  ! 

They  read  not  right  who  read  yon-  pirate  so  ; 

The  plash  of  troubled  waters,  and  the  sound 

Of  moving- vessels  grating  o'er  the  ground, 

The  quick  low  hum  of  voices,  the  faint  gush 

Of  light  waves  gurgling  as  with  sudden  rush 

They  feebly  kissed  the  bark,  then  sunk  away, 

As  half-repenting  them  such  welcome  gay, 

Were  caught,  perchance,  by  some  lone  fisher's  ear, 

Who  plied  his   line  or  net  at  midnight  here  ; 

Perhaps  he   started  from  his  drowsy  mood, 

And  tossed  his  bait  still  further  down  the  flood ; 

But  be  that  as  it  may,  'twas  heard   no  more, 

And  list'ning  silence  hovered   o'er  the  shore. 

And  yonder  fire  the  battle  sign  is  beaming, 

Far  o'er  the  dusky  waters  redly  streaming. 

The  shadow  of  the  Pirate-ship  lies  there, 

Its  banners  feebly  dancing  in  the  air  ; 

Its  broad  sails  veering  idly  to  and  fro, 

Now  glitt'ring  'neath  the  full   moon's  silver  glow, 

Now  black'ning  in   the  shade  of  night's  dull  frown ; 

'Twas  like  its   Chief,  in   silence  and  alone, 

Gazing  upon  the  shadow  which  it  cast 

O'er  every  rippling  wave  which  gently   passed. 

And  such  had  been  his  joyless,  gloomy  lot, 

Forgetting  all  mankind,  by  all  forgot, 

Save  that  accursed  one  whose  blasting  eye 

Was  glaring  on  him,  —  'twas  in  vain  to  fly 

While  vengeance  whispered  curses  in  his  ear, 

And  thought,  the  demon  thought,  received  them  there. 


192       MARITORNE;    OR    THE  PIRATE   OF  MEXICO. 

But  it  had  ever  been  his  lot  to  throw 

O'er  those  who  passed  him,  shades  of  gloom  and  woe ; 

His  love  for  Laura  had  been  deeply  cursed  ; 

Hatred's  black  phial  o'er  his  brow  had  burst  ; 

He  felt  himself  detested,  and  he  knew 

That  she  whom  he  adored,  abhorred  him  too. 

But  O,  the  hapless,  the  ill-fated  one, 

She  who  could  love  him  for  himself  alone, 

Love  him  with  all  the  crimes  upon  his  head, 

Love  when  the  crowd  with  detestation  fled, — 

A  deep  dark  shade,  a  wild,  a  with'ring  blast 

Fell  o'er  her  destiny  ;  the  die  was  cast ; 

She  was  a  wretched  one,  a  sweet  flower  faded, 

Whose     wand'ring     tendrils    .round     the     night-shade 

braided, 

Clung  to  its  baleful  breast,  —  hung  drooping  there, 
Self-sacrificed,  it  drank  the  poisoned   air 

And  with'ring 

1825.  [Unfinished.] 


AMERICA. 

AND  this  was  once  the  realm  of  Nature,  where 

Wild  as  the  wind,  though  exquisitely  fair, 

She  breathed  the  mountain  breeze,  or  bowed  to  kiss 

The  dimpling  waters  with  unbounded  bliss. 

Here  in  this  Paradise  of  earth,   where  first 

Wild  mountain  Liberty  began  to  burst, 

Once  Nature's  temple  rose  in  simple  grace, 

The  hill  her  throne,  the  world  her  dwelling-place. 

And  where  are  now  her  lakes,   so  still  and  lone, 

Her  thousand  streams  with  bending  shrubs  o'ergrown? 

Where  her  dark  cat'racts  tumbling  from  on  high, 

With  rainbow  arch  aspiring  to  the  sky  ? 

Her  tow'ring  pines  with  fadeless  wreaths  entwined, 

Her  waving  alders  streaming  to  the  wind  ? 

Nor  these  alone,  —  her  own, — her  fav'rite  child, 

All  fire,  all  feeling  ;  man  untaught  and  wild  ; 

Where  can  the  lost,  lone  son  of  Nature  stray  ? 

For  art's  high  car  is  rolling  on  its  way  ; 

A  wand'rer  of  the  world,  he  flies  to  drown 

The  thoughts  of  days  gone  by  and  pleasures  flown 

In  the  deep  draught,  whose  dregs  are  death  and  woe, 

With  slavery's  iron  chain  concealed  below.     . 

Once  through  the  tangled  wood,  with  noiseless  tread 

And  throbbing  heart,  the  lurking  warrior  sped, 

Aimed  his  sure  weapon,  won  the  prize,  and  turned, 

While  his  high  heart  with  wild  ambition  burned, 

13 


194  AMERICA. 

With  song  and  war-whoop  to  his  native  tree, 
There  on  its  bark  to  carve  the  victory. 
His  all  of  learning  did  that  act  comprise, 
But  still  in  natures  volume  doubly  wise. 

The  wayward  stream  which  once,  with  idle  bound, 
Whirled  on  resistless  in  its  foaming  round, 
Now  curbed  by  art  flows  on,  a  wat'ry  chain 
Linking  the  snow-capped  mountains  to  the  main. 
Where  once  the  alder  in  luxuriance  grew, 
Or  the  tall  pine  its  towering  branches  threw 
Abroad  to  heaven,  with  dark  and  haughty  brow, 
There  mark  the  realms  of  plenty  smiling  now  ; 
There  the  full  sheaf  of  Ceres  richly  glows, 
And  Plenty's  fountain  blesses  as  it  flows  ; 
And  man,  a  brute  when  left  to  wander  wild, 
A  reckless  creature,  Nature's  lawless  child, 
What  boundless  streams  of  knowledge  rolling  now 
From  the  full  hand  of  art  around  him  flow ! 
Improvement  strides  the  surge,  while  from  afar 
Learning  rolls  onward  in  her  silver  car  ; 
Freedom  unfurls  her  banner  o'er  his  head, 
While  peace  sleeps  sweetly  on  her  native  bed. 

The  Muse  arises  from  the  wild-wood  glen-, 
And  chants  her  sweet  and  hallowed  song  again, 
As  in  those  halcyon  days,  which  bards  have  sung, 
When  hope  was  blushing,  and  when  life  was  young. 
Thus  shall  she  rise,  and  thus  her  sons  shall  rear 
Her  sacred  temple  here,  and  only  here, 


AMERICA, 


While  Percival,  her  loved  and  chosen  priest, 
Forever  blessing,  though  himself  unblest, 
Shall  fan  the  fire  that  blazes  at  her  shrine, 
And  charm  the  ear  with  numbers  half  divine. 


195 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  A  COUSIN. 

SHE  gave  me  a  flow' ret,  —  and  O  !  it  was  sweet ! 
'Twas   a   pea    in    full   bloom,  with  its  dark  crimson 

leaf, 

And  I  said  in  my  heart,  this  shall  be  thy  retreat ! 
Tis    one    "  sacred    to    Friendship "  —  a    stranger    to 
grief. 

In  my  bosom  I  placed  it,  —  'tis  withered  and   gone ! 

All  its  freshness,  its  beauty,  its  fragrance   had  fled  ! 
And  in  sorrow  I  sighed,  —  Am  I  thus  left  alone  ? 

Is  the  gift  which  I  cherished  quite  faded  and  dead  ? 

It  has  withered !  but  she  who  presented  it  blooms, 

Still  fresh  and  unfading,  in  memory  here! 
And    through  life    shall  here  flourish,  'mid   danger  and 

glooms, 

As    sweet    as    the   flower,  though    more   lasting  and 
fair! 


ON    SEEING    A    YOUNG    LADY    AT    HER    DEVO 
TIONS. 

SHE  knelt,  and  her  dark  blue  eye  was  raised,  — 

A  sacred  fire  in  its  bright  beam  blazed, 

And  it  spread  o'er  her  cold  pale  cheek  a  light 

So  pure  and  so  sacred,  so  clear  and  so  bright, 

That  Parian  marble,  though  glittering  fair 

'Neath    the     moon's    pale    beam    or    the    sun's    broad 

glare, 

Were  far  less  sweet,  though  more  dazzlingly  bright, 
Than  that  cold  cheek  arrayed  in  its  halo  of  light. 

0  !  I  love  not  the  dark  rosy  hue  of  the  sky 

When    the    bright   blush  of  morn    mantles  deeply  and 

high, 

But  my  fond  soul  adores  the  pure  author  of  light, 
The    more    when    she    looks    on    the   broad    brow   of 

night ; 

On  myriads  of  stars  glitt'ring  far  through  the  sky,  ' 
Like  the  bright  eyes  of  saints    looking  down  from  on 

high 

From    their   garden  of  Paradise,  blooming  in  heaven, 
On  the  scene  sleeping  sweet  'neath  the  calm  smile  of 

even. 

1  love  not  the  cheek  which  speaks  slumber  unbroken  ; 
That    heart   hath    ne'er   sighed   o'er   hope's  fast  fading 

token  ; 


198     ON  SEEING  A    YOUNG  LADY  AT  HER   DEVOTIONS. 

That  bosom  ne'er  throbbed  with  half  fearful  delight 
When  it  thought  on  its  home  in  the   regions  of  light, 
Or  trembled  and  wept  as  with  fancy's  dear  eye 
It  gazed  on  the  beautiful  gates  of  the  sky, 
And  the  angels  which  watch  at   their   portals  of  light 
All  peaceful,  all  sacred,  all  pure,  and  all  bright ; 
But  I  love  that  pale  cheek  as  it  bends  in  devotion, 
Like  a  star  sinking  down  on  the  breast  of  the  ocean. 
1825. 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY, 

WHOSE    MOTHER   WAS    INSANE   FROM    HER   BIRTH- 

AND  thou  hast  never,  never  known 
A  mother's  love,  a  mother's  care  ! 

Hast  wept,  and  sighed,  and  smiled  alone, 
Unblest  by  e'en  a  mother's  prayer. 

O,  if  sad  sorrow's  blighting  hand 
Hath  e'er  an  arrow,  it  is  this : 

To  feel  that  frenzy's  burning  brand 
Hath  wiped  away  a  mother's  kiss  ; 

To  mark  the  gulf,  the  starless  wave, 

Which  rolls  between  thee  and  her  love  ; 

To  feel  that  better  were  a  grave, 
A  grave  beneath,  a  home  above, 

Than  thus  that  she  should  linger  on, 
In  dreamless;  sunless  solitude, 

Like  some  bright  ruined  shrine,  where  one 
All  loveliness  and  truth  hath  stood. 

And  he,  her  love,  her  life,  her  light, 
How  burst  the  storm  o'er  him  ! 

% 

O,  darker  than  Egyptian  night,  — 
'Twas  one  wild  troubled  dream ! 


200  TO  A    YOUNG  LADY. 

To  gaze  upon  that  eye,  whose  beam 
Was  love,  and  life,  and  light, 

To  mark  its  wild  and  wandering  gleam 
Which  dazzles  but  to  blight  ; 

To  turn  in  anguish  and  despair 
From  those  wild  notes  of  sadness, 

And  feel  that  there  was  darkness  there, 
The  midnight  mist  of  madness  ; 

To  start  beneath  the  thrilling  swell 
Of  notes  still  sweet,  though  wasted, 

To  mark  the  idol  loved  too  well, 
In  all  its  beauty  blasted  ; 

O !    it  were  better  far  to  kneel, 
In  darkly  brooding  anguish, 

Upon  the  graves  of  those  we  love, 
Than  thus  to  see  them  languish. 


THE   FEAR   OF   MADNESS. 

WRITTEN    WHILE   CONFINED   TO    HER   BED,    DURING   HER   LAST    ILLNESS. 

THERE  is  a  something  which  I  dread, 

It  is  a  dark,  a  fearful  thing  ; 
It  steals  along  with  withering   tread, 

Or  sweeps  on  wild  destruction's  wing. 

That  thought  comes  o'er  me  in  the  hour 
Of  grief,  of  sickness,  or  of  sadness ; 

'Tis  not  the  dread  of  death  —  'tis  more, 
It  is  the  dread  of  madness. 

O  !  may  these  throbbing  pulses   pause, 
Forgetful  of  their  feverish  course; 

May  this  hot  brain,  which,  burning,  glows 
With  all  its  fiery  whirlpool's  force, 

Be  cold,  and  motionless,  and  still, 

A  tenant  of  its  lowly  bed, 
But  let  not  dark  delirium  steal  — 

{Unfinished.} 

1825. 


MY    LAST    FAREWELL    TO    MY    HARP. 

AND  must  we  part  ?  yes,  part  forever  ? 

I'll  waken  thee  again  —  no,  never  ; 

Silence  shall  chain  thee  cold  and  drear, 

And  thou  shalt  calmly  slumber  here. 

Unhallowed  was  the  eye  that  gazed 

Upon  the  lamp  which  brightly  blazed, 

The  lamp  which  never  can  expire, 

The  undying,  wild,  poetic  fire. 

And  O !  unhallowed  was  the  tongue 

Which  boldly  and  uncouthly  sung  ; 

I  blessed  the  hour  when  o'er  my  soul 

Thy  magic  numbers  gently  stole, 

And  o'er  it  threw  those  heavenly  strains, 

Which  since  have  bound  my  heart  in  chains  ; 

Those  wild,  those  witching  numbers  still 

Will  o'er  my  widowed  bosom  steal. 

I  blessed  that  hour,  but  O !  my  heart, 

Thou  and  thy  lyre  must  part ;  yes,  part ; 

And  this  shall  be  my  last  farewell, 

This  my  sad  bosom's  latest  knell. 

And  here,  my  harp,  we  part  forever; 

I'll  waken  thee  again,  O  !  never ; 

Silence  shall  chain  thee  cold  and  drear, 

And  thou  shalt  calmly  slumber  here. 


SPECIMENS 


PROSE    COMPOSITION. 


COLUMBUS. 

WHAT  must  have  been  the  feelings  of  Christopher 
Columbus,  when,  for  the  first  time,  he  knelt  and 
clasped  his  hands,  in  gratitude,  upon  the  shores  of  his 
newly  discovered  world  ?  Year  after  year  has  rolled 
away  ;  war,  famine,  and  fire  have  alternately  swept  the 
face  of  that  country;  the  hand  of  tyranny  hath  op 
pressed  it ;  the  footstep  of  the  slave  hath  wearily  trod 
den  it ;  the  blood  of  the  slaughtered  hath  dyed  it ;  the 
tears  of  the  wretched  have  bedewed  it  ;  still,  even  at 
this  remote  period,  every  feeling  bosom  will  delight  to 
dwell  upon  this  brilliant  era  in  the  life  of  the  perse 
vering  adventurer.  At  that  moment,  his  name  was 
stamped  upon  the  records  of  history  forever ;  at  that 
moment,  doubt,  fear,  and  anxiety  fled,  for  his  foot  had 
pressed  upon  the  threshold  of  the  promised  land. 

The  bosom  of  Columbus  hath  long  since  ceased  to 
beat ;  its  hopes,  its  fears,  its  projects,  sleep,  with  him, 
the  long  and  dreamless  slumber  of  the  grave ;  but 
while  there  remains  one  generous  pulsation  in  the 


204  COLUMBUS. 

human  breast,  his  name  and  his  memory  will  be  held 
sacred. 

When  the  cold  dews  of  uncertainty  stood  upon  his 
brow ;  when  he  beheld  nothing  but  the  wide  heavens 
above,  the  boundless  waters  beneath  and  around  him  ; 
himself  and  his  companions  in  that  little  bark,  the  only 
beings  upon  the  endless  world  of  sky  and  ocean  ;  when 
he  looked  back,  and  thought  upon  his  native  land  ; 
when  he  looked  forward,  and  in  vain  traversed  the 
liquid  desert  for  some  spot  upon  which  to  fix  the 
aching  eye  of  anxiety,  —  O  !  say,  amidst  all  these  dan 
gers,  these  uncertainties,  whence  came  that  high,  un 
bending  hope,  which  still  soared  onward  to  the  world 
before  him  ?  whence  that  undying  patience,  that  more 
than  mortal  courage,  which  forbade  his  cheek  to  blanch 
amid  the  storm,  or  his  heart  to  recoil  in  the  dark  and 
silent  hour  of  midnight  ?  It  was  from  God  —  it  was 
of  God  —  His  Spirit  overshadowed  the  adventurer  !  By 
day,  an  unseen  cloud  directed  him  ;  by  night,  a  bril 
liant,  but  invisible  column  moved  before  him,  gleam 
ing  athwart  the  boundless  waste  of  waters.  The  winds 
watched  over  him,  and  the  waves  upheld  him,  for  God 
was  with  him  ;  the  whirlwind  passed  over  his  little 
bark,  and  left  it  still  riding  onward,  in  safety,  towards 
its  unknown  harbor,  for  the  eye  of  Him  who  pierces 
the  deep  was  fixed  upon  it. 

Columbus  had  hoped,  feared,  and  had  been  disap 
pointed  ;  he  had  suffered  long  and  patiently ;  he  had 
strained  every  faculty,  every  nerve  ;  he  had  pledged 
his  very  happiness  upon  the  discovery  of  an  unknown 
land  ;  and  what  must  have  been  the  feelings  of  his 


COLUMBUS.  205 

soul,  when,  at  length  bending  over  that  very  land,  his 
grateful  bosom  offered  its  tribute  of  praise  and  thanks 
giving  to  the  Being  who  had  guarded  and  guided  him 
through  death  and  danger  ?  He  beheld  the  bitter 
smile  of  scorn  and  derision  fade  before  the  reality  of 
that  vision  which  had  been  ridiculed  and  mocked  at ; 
he  thought  upon  the  thousand  obstacles  which  he  had 
surmounted  ;  he  thought  upon  those  who  had  regarded 
him  as  a  self-devoted  enthusiast,  a  visionary  madman  ; 
and  his  full  heart  throbbed  in  gratitude  to  Him  whose 
Spirit  had  inspired  him,  whose  voice  had  sent  him 
forth,  and  whose  arm  had  protected  him. 
1824. 


ALPHONSO  IN  SEARCH  OF  LEARNING. 


AN   ALLEGORY. 


EARLY  one  morning  Alphonso  set  out  in  search  of 
Learning.  He  travelled  over  barren  heaths  and  over 
rocks,  and  was  often  obliged  to  ford  rivers  which 
seemed  almost  impassable ;  at  last,  completely  ex 
hausted,  and  at  a  loss  what  road  to  take,  he  sat  down 
desponding  by  the  side  of  a  rapid  river.  Soon  a  pas 
senger  approached,  with  whom  Alphonso  entered  into 
conversation,  and  at  length  asked  him  where  he  was 
going.  "  I  am,"  replied  the  stranger,  "  seeking  Fame  ; 
and  already  by  her  trump  has  my  name  been  sounded 
in  her  courts.  She  has  promised  to  immortalise  my 
name ;  follow  me,  and  you  shall  richly  reap  the  reward 
of  your  labor."  "I  also,"  answered  Alphonso,  "have  a 
road  to  pursue,  which  leads  to  Fame ;  but  it  is  through 
Learning  that  I  must  reach  her  courts,  and  then  shall 
I  enjoy  the  fruits  of  my  toil,  in  proportion  to  the  hard 
ships  with  which  I  have  acquired  it.  Can  you  tell  me 
"  where  she  can  be  found  ?  " 

"You  see,"  replied  the  stranger,  "yonder  hills  which 
rise  one  upon  the  other,  as  far  as  the  eye  extends  ;  far,  far 
beyond  them,  whose  every  precipice  you  have  to  climb, 
Learning  resides.  Her  temple  is  pleasant,  but  few  there 
are  who  gain  it ;  many,  indeed,  have  gone  beyond  these 


ALPHONSO  IN  SEARCH  OF  LEARNING.  207 

foremost  hills,  but  stumbling,  they  have  been  dashed  to 
pieces  on  the  rocks ;  but  still  they  have  had  the  reputa 
tion  of  having  reached  her  temple,  and  their  names  are 
recorded  in  the  roll  of  Fame."  Thus  saying,  the  stranger 
proceeded  on  his  journey,  and  left  Alphonso  in  doubt 
whether  to  pursue  the  dangerous  road  of  which  the 
stranger  had  warned  him,  or  to  follow  him  to  more  easily 
acquired  fame. 

At  last  Wisdom  came  to  his  assistance,  and  he  resolved 
not  to  give  up  his  search  after  Learning.  He  proceeded 
therefore,  and  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill,  when  he 
was  met  by  another  person,  who  inquired  whither  he 
was  going.  "  I  am  in  pursuit  of  Learning,"  replied  Al 
phonso.  "What !  do  you  intend  climbing  yonder  rug 
ged  and  tiresome  hill  ? "  "  I  do,"  answered  Alphonso. 

"  Indolence  is  my  companion,"  said  the  stranger :  "  I 
found  her  in  yonder  valley.  I  toiled  not  for  her,  and  with 
out  toil  I  enjoy  ease ;  on  the  other  hand,  Learning  can 
not  be  obtained  without  labor  ;  go  with  me,  and  you  shall 
enjoy  life."  Alphonso,  partly  fatigued  with  his  long  walk, 
and  partly  discouraged  by  the  rugged  appearance  of  the 
hill,  consented.  After  walking  on  some  time  in  a  beau 
tiful  valley,  Alphonso  began  to  discover  that  his  new 
companion  was  flat  and  insipid,  that  he  had  exhausted 
all  his  little  fund  of  knowledge  in  the  beginning  of  their 
journey,  and  that  he  now  scarcely  said  anything.  Thus 
continuing  dissatisfied,  not  with  the  path,  but  with  the 
companion  he  had,  they  entered  a  beautiful  meadow,  in 
which  there  was  an  arbor,  called  the  arbor  of  Indolence, 
and  there  they  lay  down  to  rest ;  but  before  Alphonso 
slept,  a  warning  voice  sounded  in  his  ear,  "  Awake,  for 


2o8  ALPHONSO  IN  SEARCH  OF  LEARNING. 

destruction  is  at  hand."  He  heeded  it  not,  and  with  his 
senses  slept  his  conscience. 

When  they  arose  to  pursue  their  journey,  a  tempest 
gathered  ;  thick  clouds  were  in  the  heavens  ;  all  was 
black.  Night's  sable  mantle  was  thrown  over  the  hori 
zon,  and  only  now  and  then  a  flash  of  lightning,  attended 
with 'a  dreadful  thunderbolt,  showed  them  both  the  dead 
waters  of  oblivion  ;  near  them  was  the  path  which  slides 
the  unhappy  deluded  mortal  down  to  its  deep  and  noi 
some  bed. 

Alphonso's  conductor,  who  had  before  appeared  cer 
tain  of  being  on  safe  ground,  trembled  and  turned  pale 
when  he  found  himself  in  the  fatal  path.  Alphonso  was 
on  the  brink  !  He  receded  ;  his  flesh  grew  cold,  his  eye 
balls  glared,  and  his  hair  stood  on  end.  Presently  he 
heard  a  low  plashing  of  the  dead  waters  of  oblivion  ;  they 
closed  with  a  sullen  roar  over  the  unhappy  sufferer,  and 
all  was  silent.  "  This  is  the  end  of  the  careless  votary  of 
Indolence/'  thought  Alphonso,  as  he  turned  from  the 
dead  waters  of  the  lake.  "  Let  this  be  a  lesson  to  me  ! " 

He  stood  in  deep  perplexity  some  time,  not  daring  to 
turn  back,  and  he  knew  it  would  be  certain  death  to  pro 
ceed  ;  but  suddenly  the  clouds  dispersed,  the  air  was 
calm,  and  all  was  silent  ;  he  blessed  the  returning  light, 
and  with  new  vigor  passed  on  his  way  in  search  of 
Learning.  He  was  overjoyed  when  he  found  himself 
out  of  the  fatal  vale  of  Indolence. 

Again  he  viewed  those  hills  which  so  discouraged  him 
when  they  met  his  eye  before  ;  but  now  they  appeared  to 
him  with  a  far  different  aspect,  as  he  traced  over  them 
the  path  to  Learning's  happy  temple. 


ALPHONSO  IN  SEARCH  OF  LEARNING.  209' 

He  began  his  journey  anew,  and  as  he  proceeded,  the 
ascent  was  easier.  When  he  reached  the  top  of  the  hill, 
a  few  faint  rays  of  the  bright  sun  of  Learning  warmed 
his  heart,  and  though  faint,  it  was  sufficient  to  kindle 
the  slumbering  fire  of  hope  in  his  bosom.  After  he  had 
reached  the  valley  below,  he  saw  a  person  crossing  on 
the  opposite  side  with  a  light  step  and  an  open,  ingenu 
ous  countenance. 

Alphonso  stopped  him,  and  inquired  why  he  did  not 
ascend  the  hill  before  him.  "  Because,"  said  the  stranger, 
"  I  seek  Truth,  and  she  dwells  in  the  simple  vale  of  In 
nocence  ;  at  her  court  there  is  no  pomp,  but  there  is 
peace ;  she  discloses  her  name  to  all ;  some  revile  her, 
others  say  she  is  of  no  use  to  the  world,  that  they  are 
always  as  victorious  without  her  assistance  as  with  it. 
Her  followers  scarce  ever  suffer  from  the  imputations  of 
the  vile,  when  they  hold  fast  upon  her  garments.  I  can 
possess  Truth  and  Innocence  without  Learning."  Here 
the  travellers  parted  —  Alphonso  to  ascend  the  hill,  the 
stranger  to  the  vale  of  Innocence. 

Without  a  companion  in  his  solitary  journey,  with  no 
one  to  assist  him  on  his  way,  no  one  to  raise  him  if  he 
stumbled,  Alphonso  pursued  his  toilsome  course.  At 
length,  casting  his  eyes  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  he  perceived 
standing  on  its  summit  a  figure  stretching  out  one  hand 
to  assist  him,  the  other  rested  on  an  anchor,  and  a  bright 
beam  played  around  her  brow.  Alphonso  hastened  to 
ascend  the  hill ;  and  when  he  approached,  he  clasped  the 
outstretched  hand  of  Hope,  for  that  was  the  name  of  the 
fair  form,  and  imprinted  it  with  kisses.  Hope  smiled 
affectionately  upon  him,  and  with  these  encouraging 
14 


2io  ALPHONSO  IN  SEARCH  OF  LEARNING. 

words  addressed  him  :  "  Alphonso !  I  came  to  conduct 
you  to  the  temple  of  Learning ;  you  have  overcome, 
alone,  the  greatest  obstacles  ;  you  shall  now  have  a  con 
ductor." 

As  they  came  to  frightful  precipices,  where  unfortu 
nate  mortals  had  been  dashed  headlong,  for  daring  to 
approach  too  near  the  edge,  Hope  would  catch  his  hand 
and  conduct  him  to  safer  ground.  At  last,  through  many 
difficulties,  hazards,  and  reproaches,  Alphonso  came  in 
sight  of  the  temple  of  Learning.  The  sun  was  just 
sinking,  and  it  illumed  the  edges  of  the  fleecy  floating 
clouds  with  a  golden  hue.  Its  last  beam  played  upon 
the  glittering  spire  of  the  temple  ;  Alphonso  could  scarce 
believe  his  eyes.  They  reached  the  threshold.  After  so 
many  toils,  so  many  dangers,  he  had  now  acquired  the 
object  of  his  hopes. 

They  stood  a  moment,  when  the  door  was  opened  by  a 
grave-looking  old  man,  who  heartily  welcomed  them  to 
the  temple.  As  they  entered,  all  was  light :  it  burst  upon 
his  sight  like  some  enchanted  scene,  where  none  but 
ethereal  beings  dwell.  Irresistibly  he  cast  his  eyes  up  to 
the  nave  of  the  spacious  hall,  and  beheld  Learning  seated 
upon  a  throne  of  gold.  A  bright  sun  emitted  its  cheer 
ing  rays  above  his  head.  In  one  hand  she  held  a  globe, 
in  the  other  a  pen.  Books  were  piled  up  in  great  order 
here,  and  in  another  place  they  were  strewn  in  wild  pro 
fusion.  Ten  of  her  favorite  disciples  were  ranged  on 
either  hand  ;  the  swift-winged  Genius  with  his  beloved 
companion,  Fancy,  were  seated  at  her  right  hand,  and 
often  did  Genius  cast  an  approving  smile  at  the  mistress 
of  his  heart  and  actions  :  she  who  had  tamed  the  wild 


ALPHONSO  IN  SEARCH  OF  LEARNING.  2n 

spirit  of  his  temper,  and  taught  it  to  follow  in  gentler, 
softer,  and  sweeter  murmurs. 

Hope  now  conducted  Alphonso  to  the  throne  of  Learn 
ing.  She  smiled  as  he  humbly  kneeled  at  her  footstool, 
and  taking  a  laurel  from  the  hand  of  the  delighted  and 
willing  Genius,  she  crowned  the  brow  of  the  elated  Al 
phonso.  Fancy  for  a  moment  deserted  the  side  of  Gen 
ius  and  hovered  over  his  laurel-crowned  brow ;  then, 
clapping  her  wings  in  delight,  she  again  resumed  her 
former  station.  Learning  stretched  forth  her  hand  to 
him  ;  "Arise,"  said  she,  "you  are  destined  by  fate  to  fill 
this  long  vacant  seat."  Alphonso  kissed  the  outstretched 
hand,  and  gratefully  took  his  seat  at  the  side  of  Learn 
ing. 

1819. 


SENSIBILITY. 

IN  this  delicate  emotion  of  the  human  mind  there  is  a 
mixture  of  danger  and  delight  ;  it  may  be  indulged  mod 
erately,  with  pleasure  to  its  possessor,  but  uncontrolled, 
it  brings  in  its  train  a  succession  of  ideal  miseries,  and 
sensations  of  acute  pain  or  exquisite  delight. 

It  often  causes  the  heart  to  shrink  with  sensitive  hor 
ror  from  difficulties  in  the  path  of  life,  slightly  noticed,  or 
scarcely  perceptible  to  the  mind  well  governed  by  reason, 
or  fortified  by  principle.  Lively  sensibility  may  be  con 
sidered  as  the  key-stone  of  the  heart ;  it  often  unguard 
edly  unlocks  the  treasures  confided  to  its  care,  and  pour 
ing  forth  the  full  tide  of  feeling,  the  warmest  impulses  of 
the  soul  are  wasted  upon  trifles  or  squandered  on  objects 
insignificant  to  the  eye  of  reason,  and  frequently  exposes 
the  feeling  heart  to  contempt  and  ridicule. 

Deep  and  delicate  sensibility,  that  feeling  of  the  soul 
which  shrinks  from  observation  and  pours  itself  forth  in 
secret  calm  retirement,  must  certainly,  by  its  dignity  and 
sacred  character,  cause  feelings  of  reverence  for  its  pos 
sessor.  Jesus  wept  over  the  grave  of  his  departed  friend  ; 
his  sensibility  was  aroused,  and  He  shed  tears  of  sorrow 
over  the  dark  wreck  of  a  once  noble  fabric  in  the  mould 
ering  remnants  of  mortality  before  him.  His  prophetic 
soul  gazed  upon  wide  scenes  of  future  desolation.  He 
felt  for  the  miseries  of  mankind  ;  He  pitied  their  folly 
and  wept  over  the  final  destruction  of  the  human  frame, 
undermined  by  sin  and  borne  down  by  death. 


THE   HOLY   WRITINGS. 

THROUGH  the  whole  of  this  sacred  volume  may  be 
traced  the  ringer  of  a  God  !  It  is  overshadowed  by  his 
arm,  and  his  spirit  walks  forth  in  the  sublimity  of  his 
commandments.  What  are  the  mad  revilings  of  the  scof 
fer  ?  They  are  like  burning  coals  which  fall  back  upon  the 
head  of  him  who  hurled  them,  leaving  the  object  of  his 
rage  uninjured.  What  are  the  most  philosophic  works 
of  mankind  when  placed  in  comparison  with  it  ?  They 
sink  into  nothing.  What  are  the  brilliant  shafts  of  hu 
man  wit  when  directed  against  it  ?  They  are  as  the 
gilded  wing  of  the  butterfly,  fluttering  feebly  against  the 
nervous,  the  resistless  pinion  of  an  eagle.  What  are  all 
the  immense  magazines  of  learning  beside  it,  but  a 
boundless  heap  of  chafF?  Yes  ;  the  vast  edifices  of  hu 
man  knowledge  reared  by  the  restless  hand  of  ingenuity, 
and  bedecked  with  all  the  gaudy  trappings  of  eloquence, 
crumble  into  dust  and  fall  prostrate  in  its  presence,  as 
did  the  heathen  idol  before  the  ark  of  the  living  God ! 

Do  we  ask  eloquence  ?  Where  can  it  be  found  more 
pure  than  from  the  mouth  of  Him  whose  voice  of  mercy 
is  a  murmur,  and  whose  anger  speaks  in  wrathful  thun 
ders  ?  Do  we  ask  sublimity  ?  The  eagle  in  its  flight  to 
ward  heaven  is  less  sublime  than  the  hallowed  words  of 
its  Maker.  Do  we  ask  simplicity  ?  What  is  more  touch- 
ingly  so  than  the  language  of  the  sacred  volume  ?  Do 
we  ask  sweetness  or  tenderness  ?  The  breath  of  summer 


214  THE  HOLY  WRITINGS. 

is  less  sweet  than  the  Almighty's  offered  mercies.  The 
fabled  bird  which  sheds  her  blood  for  the  nourishment  of 
her  innocent  offspring,  is  cruel  in  comparison  with  Him, 
who  bled,  who  died,  for  those  who  cursed  and  tortured 
Him.  Do  we  ask  grandeur,  wildness,  or  strength  ?  Look 
there  !  there  upon  the  law  of  Him  whose  very  self  is 
grandeur,  whose  glance  is  lightning,  and  whose  arm  is 
strength. 

The  hand  of  the  impious  and  the  envious  may  hurl  the 
dust  of  derision  upon  this  sacred  volume  :  still  it  will 
shine  on,  brighter  and  brighter,  while  time  shall  be ! 


CHARITY. 

THE  sacred  volume  exhorts  us  to  Charity.  How  care 
fully,  then,  should  we  cherish  this  kindly  feeling,  this 
spark  from  the  fountain  of  life,  that  it  may  beam  forth 
undimmed,  and,  with  its  pure  and  friendly  light,  cast  a 
ray  over  our  many  imperfections,  in  that  day  when  all 
will  stand  in  need  of  mercy  and  forbearance  ! 

It  is  not  the  bare  distribution  of  alms  to  the  needy  and 
suffering  beggar,  it  is  not  the  pompous  offerings  of  opu 
lence  to  the  shrinking  child  of  poverty,  which  constitutes 
true  charity  ;  no,  it  is  to  be  understood  in  a  far  wider 
sense ;  it  is  forbearing  to  join  with  the  multitude,  when 
trampling  upon  a  fallen  fellow-creature.  It  is  the  voice 
of  Charity  which  pleads  for  the  wretched  and  the  penitent, 
which  raises  the  prostrate,  and  whispers  forgiveness  for 
the  past,  and  hope  for  the  future.  It  is  her  hand  which 
pours  the  balm  of  consolation  into  the  lacerated  bosom 
of  the  returning  wanderer,  who  dares  not  look  back  upon 
the  past,  and  whose  heart  shrinks  as  it  meets  the  cold 
and  averted  glances  of  those  who  in  the  hour  of  its  pride 
had  bowed  before  it. 

We  are  all  liable  to  err.  Let  us  make  the  situation  of 
the  suffering  penitent  our  own.  Where  are  the  friends 
we  had  fondly  fancied  ours  ?  fled,  as  from  the  breath  of 
pestilence,  and  we  are  desolate  ;  left  with  the  arrow  of 
adversity  rankling  in  our  bosoms,  like  the  stricken  deer 
by  the  selfish  herd,  to  perish  in  solitude  and  wretched 
ness. 


216  CHARITY. 

There  is  no  heart  so  hardened  and  depraved,  thai  it 
will  not,  when  the  soft  voice  of  Charity  whispers  peace 
and  forgiveness,  yield  like  wax  beneath  the  hand  which 
stamps  it.  Then  is  the  moment  to  impress  upon  it  the 
sacred  precepts  of  virtue,  and  to  place  the  bright  rewards 
of  penitence  before  it.  "  Let  us,  then,  do  as  we  would 
that  others  should  do  unto  us  ; "  have  mercy  upon  the 
fallen,  and  stretch  forth  the  hand  of  Charity  to  the  suf 
fering  and  the  penitent. 


REMARKS    ON    THE    IMMORALITY   OF   THE 
STAGE. 

4 

WHY  is  it  that  the  ear  of  modesty  must  be  shocked  by 
the  indelicacy  and  immorality  which  obstinately  clings  to 
the  stage,  that  vehicle  of  good  or  evil,  that  splendid  en 
gine  whose  movements  may  shed  a  halo  of  brilliancy 
around  it,  or  leave  behind  the  blackened  traces  of  its 
desolating  progress  ? 

Can  the  eye  of  innocence  gaze  even  upon  the  mimic 
characters  of  vice,  or  the  ear  of  delicacy  become  familiar 
ized  to  the  rude  and  boisterous,  or  the  more  dangerously 
subtle  insinuations  of  depravity,  without  quitting  the  fas 
cinating  scene  less  fastidious  in  its  feelings,  less  sensible 
to  the  bold  intrusions  of  barefaced  wickedness  ?  No : 
though  the  change  be  slow  and  almost  imperceptible,  still 
it  will  not  be  the  less  certain  ;  the  fatal  poison  will  creep 
to  the  very  vitals  of  virtue,  and  stamp  deep  stains  upon 
the  spotless  tablet  of  innocence. 

Must,  then,  all  that  is  bright  and  pure  be  shut  out  from 
those  scenes  of  fascination,  and  delight  ?  Must  that 
very  purity  which  should  be  cherished  and  guarded  as  a 
sacred  deposit,  be  converted  into  a  chain  wherewith  to 
shackle  the  amusements  of  its  possessor  ?  Would  not 
the  frequent  indulgence  of  this  amusement  be  holding 
forth  a  strong  temptation  to  those  who  are  but  partially 
fortified  in  the  principles  of  rectitude  to  overleap  the 


218   REMARKS  ON  THE  IMMORALITY  OF  THE  STAGE. 

crumbling  ill-formed  barrier,  and  plunge  at  once  into  the 
boundless  ocean  of  vice  and  immorality  ? 

O  why  will  not  authors,  those  helmsmen  in  the  mighty 
vessel  of  improvement,  dash  the  countless  stains  from 
the  charts  which  they  are  holding  to  our  eyes,  and  trans 
form  their  blackened  pages  to  pure,  spotless  records  of 
truth  and  virtue  ?  Then  we  should  no  longer  mark  the 
blush  of  offended  modesty  mantling  the  cheek  of  sensi 
bility,  or  the  frown  of  disapprobation  clouding  the  pure 
brow  of  refinement  and  morality.  The  stage  would  then 
become  the  guardian  and  the  friend,  instead  of  the  fell 
destroyer  of  all  that  is  pure  and  virtuous  in  the  human 
breast. 


CONTEMPLATION  OF  THE  HEAVENS. 

To  count  the  glittering  millions  of  the  sky,  to  marshal 
them  in  bright  array  before  us,  to  mark  the  brilliant 
traces  of  a  Creator's  presence,  the  foot-prints  of  the 
Deity,  is  a  hallowed  and  sublime  employment  of  the 
soul ;  for  being  insensibly  led  onward  from  gazing  upon 
the  portals  of  heaven,  the  wonderful  threshold  of  God's 
wide  pavilion,  it  dares  to  lift  itself  in  pure  and  unearthly 
communion  with  the  Holy  Spirit  that  inhabits  there,  and 
to  bow  in  adoration  and  praise  before  the  great  I  AM. 

To  a  feeling  mind,  the  heavens  unroll  a  vast  volume, 
filled  with  subjects  of  wonder,  love,  and  praise,  —  wonder, 
at  the  inconceivable  majesty  and  goodness  of  the  great 
Creator  of  so  vast,  so  splendid  a  system  ;  love,  for  his 
condescension  in  deigning  to  bend  his  attention  to  so  in 
significant  a  creature  as  man,  even  in  the  meridian  of  his 
earthly  glory ;  and  praise  for  his  unchangeable  benevo 
lence,  infinite  wisdom,  and  perfection.  What  hand  but 
that  of  a  God  could  have  formed  the  wide  solar  system 
above  us  ?  what  voice  but  that  of  Him  who  created  them, 
could  bid  the  starry  millions  move  on  for  thousands  of 
ages  in  one  unbroken  and  unceasing  march  ?  The  lights 
of  heaven  are  bright  and  beautiful,  still  they  are  but  feeble 
beams  from  the  everlasting  fountain  of  splendor,  or  wan 
dering  sparks  of  heaven's  dazzling  glory.  Well  indeed 
might  Zoroaster,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  his  heart,  worship 
the  fires  of  heaven  as  parts  of  that  ineffable  and  never- 


220 


CONTEMPLATION  OF  THE  HEAVENS. 


dying  spirit  which  animates  and  lives  in  all,  through  all 
eternity. 

In  the  dark  ages  of  superstition  and  bigotry,  was  it 
strange  that  he  should  turn  in  disgust  from  the  sacrifices 
of  blood,  from  horrid  images,  the  disgraceful  productions 
of  weak  bewildered  minds,  to  a  fount  of  pure,  unchang 
ing,  living  light ;  to  the  brilliant  fires  above  him,  holding 
their  unbroken  paths  through  heaven,  pointing  to  God's 
throne,  and  whispering  to  the  heart  of  something  still 
more  bright,  more  beautiful  and  holy  ? 


THE   ORIGIN   OF   CHIVALRY. 

WHEN  society  first  began  to  form  itself,  rank  and  au 
thority  became  necessary  to  subdue  the  wild  and  impetu 
ous  passions  which  raged  unbridled  in  the  savage  bosom 
of  man.  Oppression  and  vassalage  first  appeared  in  the 
form  of  feudal  government ;  each  family  looked  up  to  its 
head,  as  each  kingdom  does  now  to  its  sovereign  ;  his 
will  was  absolute,  and  his  power  unbounded  in  his 
castle  and  dominions. 

In  this  way  the  rights  of  man  were  partially  secured  ; 
the  vassal  was  bound  to  serve  and  succor  his  lord  in 
the  hour  of  danger,  as  it  was  that  lord's  only  duty  to 
support  and  protect  his  serf.  But  in  those  rude  and 
barbarous  ages,  where  was  weak  and  helpless  woman 
to  find  a  shelter  from  the  wild  and  lawless  multitude? 
and  what  tribunal  was  there  to  which  she  could  appeal 
if  injured  ?  When  man  was  contending  with  man  for 
superiority,  or  right,  where  could  she  fly  for  redress  ? 
could  the  feeble  voice  of  woman  be  heard  amid  the 
uproar  ?  No !  but  it  arose,  though  in  murmurs,  to  the 
ear  of  her  Maker,  and  that  very  evil  which  menaced 
her  destruction,  proved  her  blessing. 

In  the  dark  ages  of  the  world,  woman  held  not  that 
rank  in  society  which  a  more  enlightened  age  has  al 
lotted  her ;  she  was  deemed  merely  the  slave  of  man's 
tyrannical  will,  the  tool  of  his  pleasure,  —  too  weak  to 
defend  herself,  and  too  insignificant  to  claim  the  pro- 


222  THE   ORIGIN  OF  CHIVALRY. 

tection  of  the  lords  of  the  creation.  As  the  sun  of  Re 
ligion  arose  upon  the  world,  the  dark  clouds  of  conten 
tion  arose  with  its  light ;  arms  were  the  arguments 
which  were  unanimously  chosen  to  decide  every  con 
troversy  ;  the  sword  was  the  test  of  merit ;  and  the 
hand  which  wielded  it  with  the  greatest  dexterity  was 
chosen  to  direct  the  community. 

The  youthful  soldier,  ardent  and  enthusiastic,  was  ever 
in  search  of  some  object  on  which  to  display  his  valor  ; 
the  fair  sex  at  length  caught  and  fixed  his  attention  ; 
tournaments  and  feats  of  arms  were  instituted  to  dis 
play  his  devotion  to  the  cause  of  beauty  and  virtue  in  dis 
tress,  and  love  and  religion  were  blended ;  love  became 
wildly  romantic,  religion  was  enthusiastically  venerated  ; 
the  name  of  woman  was  held  sacred  as  that  of  religion  ; 
and  both,  as  dear  to  the  heart  of  every  knight-errant 
as  that  of  the  idol,  Honor !  they  were  blended  with 
each  other ;  the  passions  held  the  reins,  and  religion, 
though  contemplated  with  enthusiasm,  was  too  often 
made  to  bow  before  the  shrine  of  love  and  romance. 


BIOGRAPHY 

OF 

LUCRETIA    MARIA    DAVIDSON.* 


LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON  was  born  at  Plattsburg,  in 
the  State  of  New  York,  on  the  2/th  of  September,  1808. 
Her  father,  Dr.  Oliver  Davidson,  is  a  lover  of  science, 
and  a  man  of  intellectual  tastes.  Her  mother,  Margaret 
Davidson  (born  Miller),  is  of  a  most  respectable  family, 
and  received  the  best  education  her  times  afforded,  at 
the  school  of  the  celebrated  Scottish  lady,  Isabella  Gra 
ham,  an  institution  in  the  city  of  New  York,  that  had  no 
rival  in  its  day,  and  which  derived  advantages  from  the 
distinguished  individual  that  presided  over  it  that  can 
scarcely  be  counterbalanced  by  the  multiplied  masters 
and  multiform  studies  of  the  present  day.  The  family 
of  Miss  Davidson  lived  in  seclusion.  Their  pleasures  and 
excitements  were  intellectual.  Her  mother  has  suffered 
year  after  year  from  ill  health  and  debility ;  and  being  a 
person  of  imaginative  character,  and  most  ardent  and 
susceptible  feelings,  employed  on  domestic  incidents,  and 
concentrated  in  maternal  tenderness,  she  naturally  loved 
and  cherished  her  daughter's  marvelous  gifts,  and  added 
to  the  intensity  of  the  fire  with  which  her  genius  and  her 
affections,  mingling  in  one  holy  flame,  burned  till  they 
consumed  their  mortal  investments.  We  should  not 
*  Written  by  Miss  Sedgwick,  in  the  year  18  . 


224      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

have  ventured  to  say  thus  much  of  the  mother,  who  still 
survives  to  weep  and  to  rejoice  over  her  dead  child  more 
than  many  parents  over  their  living  ones,  were  it  not  to 
prove  that  Lucretia  Davidson's  character  was  not  mirac 
ulous,  but  that  this  flower  of  paradise  was  nurtured  and 
trained  by  natural  means  and  influences. 

The  physical  delicacy  of  this  fragile  creature  was  ap 
parent  in  infancy.  When  eighteen  months  old,  she  had 
a  typhus  fever,  which  threatened  her  life  ;  but  nature  put 
forth  its  mysterious  energy,  and  she  became  stronger  and 
healthier  than  before  her  illness.  No  records  were  made 
of  her  early  childhood,  save  that  she  was  by  turns  very 
gay  and  very  thoughtful,  exhibiting  thus  early  these  com 
mon  manifestations  of  extreme  sensibility.  Her  first  lit 
erary  acquisition  indicated  her  after  course.  She  learned 
her  letters  at  once.  At  the  age  of  four  she  was  sent  to 
the  Plattsburg  Academy,  where  she  learned  to  read  and 
'to  form  letters  in  sand,  after  the  Lancasterian  method. 
As  soon  as  she  could  read,  her  books  drew  her  away 
from  the  plays  of  childhood,  and  she  was  constantly 
found  absorbed  in  the  little  volumes  that  her  father  lav 
ished  upon  her.  Her  mother,  on  some  occasion,  in  haste 
to  write  a  letter,  looked  in  vain  for  a  sheet  of  paper.  A 
whole  quire  had  strangely  disappeared  from  the  table  on 
which  the  writing  implements  usually  lay  ;  she  expressed 
a  natural  vexation.  Her  little  girl  came  forward,  con 
fused,  and  said,  "  Mamma,  I  have  used  it."  Her  mother, 
knowing  she  had  never  been  taught  to  write,  was  amazed, 
and  asked  what  possible  use  she  could  have  for  it.  Lu 
cretia  burst  into  tears,  and  replied  that  "she  did  not 
like  to  tell."  Her  mother  respected  the  childish  mystery, 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON.       22$ 

and  made  no  farther  inquiries.  The  paper  continued  to 
vanish,  and  the  child  was  often  observed  with  pen  and 
ink,  still  sedulously  shunning  observation.  At  last  her 
mother,  on  seeing  her  make  a  blank  book,  asked  what 
she  was  going  to  do  with  it.  Lucretia  blushed,  and 
left  the  room  without  replying.  This  sharpened  her 
mother's  curiosity  ;  she  watched  the  child  narrowly,  and 
saw  that  she  made  quantities  of  these  little  books,  and 
that  she  was  disturbed  by  observation  ;  and  if  one  of  the 
family  requested  to  see  them,  she  would  burst  into  tears, 
and  run  away  to  hide  her  secret  treasure. 

The  mystery  remained  unexplained  till  she  was  six 
years  old,  when  her  mother,  in  exploring  a  closet  rarely 
opened,  found,  behind  piles  of  linen,  a  parcel  of  papers 
which  proved  to  be  Lucretia's  manuscript  books.  At 
first  the  hieroglyphics  seemed  to  baffle  investigation. 
On  one  side  of  the  leaf  was  an  artfully  sketched  picture ; 
on  the  other,  Roman  letters,  some  placed  upright,  others 
horizontally,  obliquely,  or  backwards,  not  formed  into 
words,  nor  spaced  in  any  mode.  Both  parents  pored 
over  them  till  they  ascertained  the  letters  were  poetical 
explanations,  in  metre  and  rhyme,  of  the  picture  on  the 
reverse.  The  little  books  were  carefully  put  away  as  lit 
erary  curiosities.  Not  long  after  this,  Lucretia  came 
running  to  her  mother,  painfully  agitated,  her  face 
covered  with  her  hands,  and  tears  trickling  down  be 
tween  her  slender  fingers.  "O  mamma!  mamma!" 
she  cried,  sobbing,  "  how  could  you  treat  me  so  ?  You 
have  not  used  me  well  !  My  little  books  !  you  have 
shown  them  to  papa  —  Anne  —  Eliza;  I  know  you  have. 
O.  what  shall  I  do  ? "  Her  mother  pleaded  guilty,  and 

15 


226      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRE 'TIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

tried  to  soothe  the  child  by  promising  not  to  do  so  again  : 
Lucretia's  face  brightened  ;  a  sunny  smile  played  through 
her  tears  as  she  replied,  "  O  mamma,  I  am  not  afraid 
you  will  do  so  again,  for  I  have  burned  them  all  ; "  and 
so  she  had !  This  reserve  proceeded  from  nothing  cold 
or  exclusive  in  her  character ;  never  was  there  a  more 
loving  or  sympathetic  creature.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
say  which  was  most  rare,  her  modesty,  or  the  genius 
it  sanctified.  She  did  not  learn  to  write  till  she  was 
between  six  and  seven  ;  her  passion  for  knowledge  was 
then  rapidly  developing  ;  she  read  with  the  closest  atten 
tion,  and  was  continually  running  to  her  parents  with 
questions  and  remarks  that  startled  them.  At  a  very 
early  age,  her  mother  implanted  the  seeds  of  religion, 
the  first  that  should  be  sown  in  the  virgin  soil  of  the 
heart.  That  the  dews  of  Heaven  fell  upon  them,  is  evi 
dent  from  the  breathing  of  piety  throughout  her  poetry, 
and  still  more  from  its  precious  fruit  in  her  life.  Her 
mother  remarks,  that,  "from  her  earliest  years,  she 
evinced  a  fear  of  doing  anything  displeasing  in  the  sight 
of  God  ;  and  if,  in  her  gayest  sallies,  she  caught  a  look 
of  disapprobation  from  me,  she  would  ask,  with  the  most 
artless  simplicity,  '  O  mother,  was  that  wicked  ? ' ' 

There  are  very  early,  in  most  children's  lives,  certain 
conventional  limits  to  their  humanity,  only  certain  forms 
of  animal  life  that  are  respected  and  cherished.  A  robin, 
a  butterfly,  or  a  kitten  is  a  legitimate  object  of  their  love 
and  caresses ;  but  woe  to  the  beetle,  the  caterpillar,  or 
the  rat  that  is  thrown  upon  their  tender  mercies  !  Lu- 
cretia  Davidson  made  no  such  artificial  discriminations  ; 
she  seemed  to  have  an  instinctive  kindness  for  every  liv- 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON.      227 

ing  thing.  When  she  was  about  nine,  one  of  her  school 
fellows  gave  her  a  young  rat  that  had  broken  its  leg  in 
attempting  to  escape  from  a  trap  ;  she  tore  off  a  part  of 
her  pocket-handkerchief,  bound  up  the  maimed  leg, 
carried  the  animal  home,  and  nursed  it  tenderly.  The 
rat,  in  spite  of  the  care  of  its  little  leech,  died,  and  was 
buried  in  the  garden,  and  honored  with  the  meed  of  a 
"  melodious  tear."  This  lament  has  not  been  preserved  ; 
but  one  she  wrote  soon  after,  on  the  death  of  a  maimed 
pet  robin,  is  given  here  as  the  earliest  record  of  her 
Muse  that  has  been  preserved  :  — 

"ON    THE    DEATH    OF    MY    ROBIN. 

Underneath  this  turf  doth  lie 

A  little  bird  which  ne'er  could  fly  ; 

Twelve  large  angle-worms  did  fill 

This  little  bird,  whom  they  did  kill. 

Puss,  if  you  should  chance  to  smell 

My  little  bird  from  his  dark  cell, 

O  !  do  be  merciful,  my  cat, 

And  not  serve  him  as  you  did  my  rat !  " 

Her  application  to  her  studies  at  school  was  intense. 
Her  mother  judiciously,  but  in  vain,  attempted  a  di 
version  in  favor  of  that  legitimate  sedative  to  female 
genius,  the  needle  ;  Lucretia  performed  her  prescribed 
tasks  with  fidelity  and  with  amazing  celerity,  and  was 
again  buried  in  her  book. 

When  she  was  about  twelve,  she  accompanied  her 
father  to  the  celebration  of  Washington's  birth-night. 
The  music  and  decorations  excited  her  imagination  ; 
but  it  was  not  with  her,  as  with  most  children,  the 


228     BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA  MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

mere  pleasure  of  stimulated  sensations  ;  she  had  studied 
the  character  and  history  of  the  Father  of  her  country, 
and  the  "  fete"  stirred  up  her  enthusiasm,  and  inspired 
that  feeling  of  actual  existence  and  presence  peculiar 
to  minds  of  her  temperament. 

To  the  imaginative  there  is  an  extension  of  life  far 
back  into  the  dim  past,  and  forward  into  the  untried 
future,  denied  to  those  of  common  mould. 

The  day  after  the  fete  her  elder  sister  found  her  ab 
sorbed  in  writing.  She  had  sketched  an  urn,  and 
written  two  stanzas  beneath  it :  she  was  persuaded  to 
show  them  to  her  mother  ;  she  brought  them,  blush 
ing  and  trembling  ;  her  mother  was  ill,  in  bed  ;  but 
she  expressed  her  delight  with  such  unequivocal  ani 
mation,  that  the  child's  face  changed  from  doubt  to 
rapture,  and  she  seized  the  paper,  ran  away,  and  im 
mediately  added  the  concluding  stanzas ;  when  they 
were  finished,  her  mother  pressed  her  to  her  bosom, 
wept  with  delight,  and  promised  her  all  the  aid  and 
encouragement  she  could  give  her;  the  sensitive  child 
burst  into  tears.  "And  do  you  wish  me  to  write, 
mamma  ?  and  will  papa  approve  ?  and  will  it  be  right 
that  I  should  do  so  ? "  This  delicate  conscientiousness 
gives  an  imperishable  charm  to  the  stanzas,  which  will 
be  found  among  the  poems  in  this  volume,  under  the 
title  of  "  A  Hero's  Dust" 

Lucretia  did  not  escape  the  common  trial  of  preco 
cious  genius.  A  literary  friend,  to  whom  Mrs.  Davidson 
showed  the  stanzas,  suspected  the  child  had,  perhaps 
unconsciously,  repeated  something  she  had  gathered 
from  the  mass  of  her  reading,  and  she  betrayed 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA  MARIA   DAVIDSON.     229 

her  suspicion  to  Lucretia  ;  she  felt  her  rectitude  im 
peached,  and  this,  and  not  the  wounded  pride  of  the 
young  author,  made  her  weep  till  she  was  actually  ill. 
As  soon  as  she  recovered  her  tranquillity,  she  offered  a 
poetic  and  playful  remonstrance,  which  set  the  matter 
at  rest,  and  put  an  end  to  all  future  question  of  the 
authenticity  of  her  productions.  Before  she  was  twelve 
years  old,  she  had  read  the  English  poets.  "The  Eng 
lish  poets,"  says  Southey,  in  his  review  of  Miss 
Davidson's  poems,  "  though  a  vague  term,  was  a  whole 
some  course,  for  such  a  mind."  She  had  read,  beside, 
much  history,  sacred  and  profane,  novels,  and  other 
works  of  imagination.  Dramatic  works  were  particu 
larly  attractive  to  her ;  her  devotion  to  Shakspeare  is 
expressed  in  an  address  to  him  written  about  this  time, 
from  which  we  extract  the  following  stanzas :  — 

"  Heaven,  in  compassion  to  man's  erring  heart, 
Gave  thee  of  virtue,  then  of  vice  a  part, 
Lest  we,  in  wonder,  here  should  bow  before  thee, 
Break  God's  commandment,  worship  and  adore  thee." 

Ordinary  romances,  and  even  those  highly  wrought  fic 
tions  that  without  any  type  in  Nature  have  such  a  mis 
chievous  charm  for  most  imaginative  young  persons,  she 
instinctively  rejected  ;  her  healthy  appetite,  keen  as  it 
was,  was  under  the  government  of  a  pure  and  sound  na 
ture.  Her  mother,  always  aware  of  the  worth  of  the  gem 
committed  to  her  keeping,  amidst  her  sufferings  from 
ill  health  kept  a  watchful  eye  on  her  child,  directed  her 
pursuits,  and  sympathized  in  all  her  little  school  labors 
and  trials ;  she  perceived  that  Lucretia  was  growing 


230      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRE TIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

pale  and  sickly  over  her  studies,  and  she  judiciously 
withdrew  her,  for  a  time,  from  school.  She  was  soon 
rewarded  for  this  wise  measure  by  hearing  her  child's 
bounding  step  as  she  approached  her  sick-room,  and 
seeing  the  cheek  bent  over  her  pillow  blooming 
with  returning  health.  How  miserably  mistaken  are 
those,  who  fancy  that  all  the  child's  lessons  must  be 
learned  from  the  school-book  and  school-room !  This 
apt  pupil  of  Nature  had  only  changed  her  books  and 
her  master ;  now,  she  sat  at  the  feet  of  the  great 
teacher,  Nature,  and  read,  and  listened,  and  thought,  as 
she  wandered  along  the  Saranac,  or  contemplated  the 
varying  aspects  of  Cumberland  Bay.  She  would  sit  for 
hours  and  watch  the  progress  of  a  thunder-storm,  from 
the  first  gathering  of  the  clouds  to  the  farewell  smile 
of  the  rainbow.  "  Twilight,"  and  "  The  Evening  Spirit," 
are  examples  of  the  impression  of  these  studies  and 
pensive  meditations. 

In  her  thirteenth  year  the  clouds  seemed  heavily 
gathering  over  her  morning ;  her  mother,  who  had 
hitherto  been  her  guide  and  companion,  could  no 
longer  extend  to  her  child  the  sympathy  and  encourage 
ment  which  she  needed.  Lucretia  was  oppressed  with 
the  apprehension  of  losing  this  fond  parent,  who  for 
weeks  and  months  seemed  upon  the  verge  of  the  grave. 
There  are,  among  her  unpublished  poems,  some  touch 
ing  lines  to  her  mother,  written,  I  believe,  about  this 
time,  concluding  thus  :  — 

"  Hang  not  thy  harp  upon  the  willow, 

That  weeps  o'er  every  passing  wave  ; 
This  life  is  but  a  restless  pillow ; 

There's  calm  and  peace  beyond  the  jrave.'' 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON.      231 

As  Mrs.  Davidson's  health  gradually  amended,  with 
it  returned  her  desire  to  give  her  daughter  every  means 
in  her  power  to  aid  the  development  of  her  extraordi 
nary  genius.  Her  extreme  sensibility  and  delicate 
health  subjected  her,  at  times,  to  depressions  of  spirit ; 
but  she  had  nothing  of  the  morbid  dejection,  the  ex- 
clusiveness,  and  hostility  to  the  world,  that  are  the  re 
sults  of  self-exaggeration,  selfishness,  and  self-idolatry, 
and  not  the  natural  offspring  of  genius  and  true  feel 
ing,  which,  in  their  healthy  state,  are  pure  and  living 
fountains  flowing  out  in  abundant  streams  of  love  and 
kindness. 

Indulgent  as  Mrs.  Davidson  was,  she  was  too  wise 
to  permit  Lucretia  to  forego  entirely  the  customary 
employments  of  her  sex.  When  engaged  with  these,  it 
seems,  she  sometimes  played  truant  with  the  Muse. 
Once  she  had  promised  to  do  a  sewing  task,  and  had 
eagerly  run  off  for  her  work-basket ;  she  loitered,  and 
when  she  returned,  she  found  her  mother  had  done 
the  work,  and  that  there  was  a  shade  of  just  displeas 
ure  on  her  countenance.  "  O  mamma  !  "  she  said,  "  I 
did  forget ;  I  am  grieved,  I  did  not  mean  to  neglect 
you."  "  Where  have  you  been,  Lucretia  ?  "  "  I  have 
been  writing,"  she  replied,  confused ;  "as  I  passed  the 
window,  I  saw  a  solitary  sweet  pea ;  I  thought  they 
were  all  gone.  This  was  alone  ;  I  ran  to  smell  it  ; 
but  before  I  could  reach  it,  a  gust  of  wind  broke  the 
stem.  I  turned  away  disappointed,  and  was  coming 
back  to  you  ;  but  as  I  passed  the  table,  there  stood 
the  inkstand,  and  I  forgot  you."  If  our  readers  will 
turn  to  her  printed  poems,  and  read  the  "  Last  Flower 


232      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRE 77 'A   MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

of  the  Garden,"  they  will  not  wonder  that  her  mother 
kissed  her,  and  bade  her  never  resist  a  similar  im 
pulse. 

When  in  her  "  happy  moments,"  as  she  termed  them, 
the  impulse  to  write  was  irresistible  ;  she  always  wrote 
rapidly,  and  sometimes  expressed  a  wish  that  she  had 
two  pairs  of  hands,  to  record  as  fast  as  she  composed. 
She  wrote  her  short  pieces  standing,  often  three  or 
four  in  a  day,  in  the  midst  of  the  family,  blind  and 
deaf  to  all  around  her,  wrapt  in  her  own  visions.  She 
herself  describes  these  visitations  of  her  Muse,  in  an 
address  to  her,  beginning  — 

"  Enchanted  when  thy  voice  I  hear, 

I  drop  each  earthly  care  ; 

I  feel  as  wafted  from  the  world 

To  Fancy's  realms  of  air." 

When  composing  her  long  and  complicated  poems, 
like  "  Amir  Khan,"  she  required  entire  seclusion  ;  if 
her  pieces  were  seen  in  the  process  of  production,  the 
spell  was  dissolved ;  she  could  not  finish  them,  and 
they  were  cast  aside  as  rubbish.  When  writing  a  poem 
of  considerable  length,  she  retired  to  her  own  apart 
ment,  closed  the  blinds,  and  in  warm  weather  placed 
her  yEolian  harp  in  the  window.  Her  mother  has  de 
scribed  her  on  one  of  these  occasions,  when  an  artist 
would  have  painted  her  as  a  young  genius  commun 
ing  with  her  Muse.  We  quote  her  mother's  graphic 
description  :  "  I  entered  the  room  ;  she  was  sitting  with 
scarcely  light  enough  to  discern  the  characters  she  was 
tracing  ;  her  harp  was  in  the  window,  touched  by  a 
breeze  just  sufficient  to  rouse  the  spirit  of  harmony ; 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON,      233 

her  comb  had  fallen  on  the  floor,  and  her  long  dark 
ringlets  hung  in  rich  profusion  over  her  neck  and 
shoulders  ;  her  cheek  glowed  with  animation ;  her  lips 
were  half  unclosed  ;  her  full  dark  eye  was  radiant  with 
the  light  of  genius,  and  beaming  with  sensibility ;  her 
head  rested  on  her  left  hand,  while  she  held  her  pen 
in  her  right ;  she  looked  like  the  inhabitant  of  another 
sphere  ;  she  was  so  wholly  absorbed  that  she  did  not 
observe  my  entrance.  I  looked  over  her  shoulder  and 
read  the  following  lines :  — 

" '  What  heavenly  music  strikes  my  ravished  ear, 
So  soft,  so  melancholy,  and  so  clear  ? 
And  do  the  tuneful  Nine  then  touch  the  lyre, 
To  fill  each  bosom  with  poetic  fire  ? 
Or  does  some  angel  strike  the  sounding  strings 
Who  caught  from  Echo  the  wild  note  he  sings  ? 
But  ah  !  another  strain,  how  sweet,  how  wild  ! 
Now  rushing  low,  'tis  soothing,  soft,  and  mild.' 

"  The  noise  I  made  on  leaving  the  room  roused  her, 
and  she  soon  after  brought  me  her  'Lines  to  an 
^Eolian  Harp.'  " 

During  the  winter  of  1822  she  wrote  a  poetical  ro 
mance,  entitled  "  Rodri."  She  burned  this,  save  a  few 
fragments  found  after  her  death.  These  indicate  a  well- 
contrived  story,  and  are  marked  by  the  marvelous  ease 
and  grace  that  characterized  her  versification.  During 
this  winter  she  wrote  also  a  tragedy,  "The  Reward 
of  Ambition,"  the  only  production  she  ever  read  aloud 
to  her  family.  The  following  summer,  her  health  again 
failing,  she  was  withdrawn  once  more  from  school,  and 
sent  on  a  visit  to  some  friends  in  Canada.  A  letter,  too 
long  to  be  inserted  here  entire,  gives  a  very  interest- 


234      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA  MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

ing  account  of  the  impression  produced  on  this  little 
thoughtful  and  feeling  recluse,  by  new  objects  and 
new  aspects  of  society.  "  We  visited,"  says  the  writer, 
"the  British  fortifications  at  Isle-aux-Noix.  The  broad 
ditch,  the  lofty  ramparts,  the  draw-bridge,  the  covered 
gate-way,  the  wide-mouthed  cannon,  the  arsenal,  and 
all  the  imposing  paraphernalia  of  a  military  fortress, 
seemed  connected  in  her  mind  with  powerful  associ 
ations  of  what  she  had  read,  but  never  viewed  be 
fore.  Instead  of  shrinking  from  objects  associated 
with  carnage  and  death,  like  many  who  possess  not 
half  her  sensibility,  she  appeared  for  the  moment  to 
be  attended  by  the  god  of  war,  and  drank  the  spirit 
of  battles  and  siege,  with  the  bright  vision  before  her 
eyes,  of  conquering  heroes,  and  wreaths  of  victory." 
It  is  curious  to  see  thus  early  the  effect  of  story  and 
song  in  overcoming  the  instincts  of  nature ;  to  see  this 
tender,  gentle  creature  contemplating  the  engines  of 
war,  not  with  natural  dread  as  instruments  of  torture 
and  death,  but  rather  as  the  forges  by  which  tri 
umphal  cars  and  wreaths  of  victory  were  to  be  wrought. 
A  similar  manifestation  of  the  effect  of  tradition  and 
association  on  her  poetic  imagination  is  described  in 
the  following  passages  from  the  same  letter :  "  She 
found  much  less  in  the  Protestant  than  in  the  Cath 
olic  churches  to  awaken  those  romantic  and  poetic 
associations,  created  by  the  record  of  events  in  the 
history  of  antiquity  and  traditional  story,  and  much 
less  to  accord  with  the  fictions  of  her  high-wrought 
imagination.  In  viewing  the  buildings  of  the  city,  or 
the  paintings  in  the  churches,  the  same  uniformity  of 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCKETIA   MARIA  DAVIDSON.      235 

taste  was  observable.  The  modern,  however  beautiful 
in  design  or  execution,  had  little  power  to  fix  her  at 
tention  ;  while  the  grand,  the  ancient,  the  romantic, 
seized  upon  her  imagination  with  irresistible  power. 
The  sanctity  of  time  seemed,  to  her  mind,  to  give  a 
sublimity  to  the  simplest  objects ;  and  whatever  was 
connected  with  great  events  in  history,  or  with  the 
lapse  of  ages  long  gone  by,  riveted  and  absorbed 
every  faculty  of  her  mind.  During  our  visit  to  the 
nunneries  she  said  but  little,  and  seemed  abstracted 
in  thought,  as  if,  as  she  herself  so  beautifully  expresses 
it,  to 

"  '  Roll  back  the  tide  of  time,  and  raise 
The  faded  forms  of  other  days.' 

"  She  had  an  opportunity  of  viewing  an  elegant  col 
lection  of  paintings.  She  seemed  in  ecstasies  all  the 
evening,  and  every  feature  beamed  with  joy."  The 
writer,  after  proceeding  to  give  an  account  of  her  sur 
prising  success  in  attempts  at  pencil-sketches  from 
Nature,  expresses  his  delight  and  amazement  at  the 
attainments  of  this  girl  of  fourteen  years  in  general 
literature,  and  at  the  independence  and  originality  of 
mind  that  resisted  the  subduing,  and,  if  I  may  be  allowed 
the  expression,  the  subordinating  effect  of  this  early 
intimacy  with  captivating  models.  A  marvelous  resist 
ance,  if  we  take  into  the  account  "  that  timid,  retiring 
modesty,"  which,  as  the  writer  of  the  letter  says, 
''marked  her  even  to  painful  excess."  Lucretia  re 
turned  to  her  mother  with  renovated  health,  and  her 
mind  bright  with  new  impressions  and  joyous  emotions. 


236      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA  MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

Religion  is  the  natural,  and  only  sustaining  element 
of  such  a  character.  Where,  but  at  the  ever  fresh, 
sweet,  and  life-giving  fountains  of  the  Bible,  could  such 
a  spirit  have  drunk,  and  not  again  thirsted?  During 
the  winter  of  1823,  she  applied  herself  more  closely 
than  ever  to  her  studies.  She  read  the  Holy  Scrip 
tures  with  fixed  attention.  She  almost  committed  to 
memory  the  Psalms  of  David,  the  Lamentations  of 
Jeremiah,  and  the  book  of  Job,  guided  in  her  selection 
by  her  poetic  taste.  Byron  somewhere  pronounces  the 
book  of  Job  the  sublimest  poetry  on  record.  During 
the  winter  Miss  Davidson  wrote  "A  Hymn  on  Crea 
tion,"  "  The  Exit  from  Egyptian  Bondage,"  and  versi 
fied  many  chapters  of  the  Bible.  She  read  the  New 
Testament,  and  particularly  those  parts  of  it  that  con 
tained  the  most  affecting  passages  in  the  history  of 
our  Saviour,  with  the  deepest  emotion. 

In  her  intellectual  pursuits  and  attainments  only  was 
she  premature.  She  retained  unimpared  the  innocence, 
simplicity,  and  modesty  of  a  child.  We  have  had  de 
scriptions  of  the  extreme  loveliness  of  her  face,  and 
gracefulness  of  her  person,  from  less  doubtful  authority 
than  a  fond  mother. 

Our  country  towns  are  not  regulated  by  the  conven 
tional  systems  of  the  cities,  where  a  youthful  beauty  is 
warily  confined  to  the  nursery  and  the  school  till  the 
prescribed  age  for  coming  out,  the  coup-de-tJieatre  of 
every  young  city-woman's  life,  arrives.  In  the  country, 
as  soon  as  a  girl  can  contribute  to  the  pleasures  of  so 
ciety,  she  is  invited  into  it.  During  the  winter  of  1823, 
Plattsburgh  was  gay,  and  Miss  Davidson  was  eagerly 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA  DAVIDSON.      237 

sought  to  embellish  the  village  dances.  She  had  been 
at  a  dancing  school,  and,  like  most  young  persons,  en 
joyed  excessively  this  natural  exercise ;  for  that  may  be 
called  natural  which  exists  among  all  nations,  barbarous 
and  civilized. 

Mrs.  Davidson  has  given  an  account  of  her  daughter's 
first  ball,  which  all  young  ladies,  at  least,  will  thank  us 
for  transcribing  almost  verbatim,  as  it  places  her  more 
within  the  circle  of  their  sympathies.  Her  mother  had 
consented  to  her  attending  one  or  two  public  assemblies, 
in  the  hope  they  might  diminish  her  extreme  timid 
ity,  painful  both  to  Lucretia  and  her  friends.  The  day 
arrived  ;  Mrs.  Davidson  was  consulting  with  her  eldest 
daughter  upon  the  all-important  matter  of  the  dresses 
for  the  evening ;  Lucretia  sat  by,  reading,  without  rais 
ing  her  eyes  from  the  book,  one  of  the  Waverly  Novels. 
"  Mamma,  what  shall  Luly  wear  ? "  asked  her  eldest  sis 
ter,  calling  her  by  the  pretty  diminutive  by  which  they 
usually  addressed  her  at  home.  "  Come,  Lucretia,  what 
color  will  you  wear  to-night  ? "  "  Where  ?  "  "  Where  ; 
why,  to  the  assembly,  to  be  sure."  "  The  assembly  ;  is  it 
to-night  ?  so  it  is  !  "  and  she  tossed  away  the  book  and 
danced  about  the  room  half  wild  with  delight ;  her  sister 
at  length  called  her  to  order,  and  the  momentous  ques 
tion  respecting  the  dress  was  definitely  settled ;  she  then 
resumed  her  reading,  and,  giving  no  thought  to  the  ball, 
she  was  again  absorbed  in  her  book.  This  did  not  re 
sult  from  carelessness  of  appearance,  or  indifference  to 
dress  ;  on  the  contrary,  she  was  rather  remarkable  for 
that  nice  taste  which  belongs  to  an  eye  for  proportion 
and  coloring  ;  and  any  little  embellishment  or  ornament 


238      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

she  wore  was  well  chosen  and  well  placed  ;  but  she  had 
the  right  estimate  of  the  relative  value  of  objects,  which 
belongs  to  a  superior  mind.  When  the  evening  ap 
proached,  the  star  of  the  ball  again  shone  forth  ;  she 
threw  aside  her  book,  and  began  the  offices  of  the  toilet 
with  girlish  interest,  and,  it  might  be,  some  heart-beating 
at  the  probable  effect  of  the  lovely  face  her  mirror 
reflected.  Her  sister  was  to  arrange  her  hair.  Lucretia 
put  on  her  dressing-gown  to  await  her  convenience  ;  but 
when  the  time  came,  she  was  missing.  "  We  called  her 
in  vain,"  says  Mrs.  Davidson  ;  "  at  last,  opening  the  par 
lor  door,  I  distinctly  saw,  for  it  was  twilight,  some  person 
sitting  behind  the  large  close  stove  ;  I  approached,  and 
found  Lucretia  writing  poetry  !  moralizing  on  what  the 
world  calls  pleasure !  I  was  almost  dumb  with  amaze 
ment.  She  was  eager  to  go,  delighted  with  the  prospect 
of  pleasure  before  her ;  yet  she  acted  as  if  the  time  were 
too  precious  to  spend  in  the  necessary  preparations,  and 
she  sat  still,  and  finished  the  last  stanza,  while  I  stood 
by,  mute  with  astonishment  at  this  strange  bearing  in  a 
girl  of  fourteen,  preparing  to  attend  her  first  ball,  an 
event  she  had  anticipated  with  so  many  mingled  emo 
tions."  "  She  returned  from  the  assembly,"  continues 
her  mother,  "  wild  with  delight.  '  O  mamma,'  she  said, 
'  I  wish  you  had  been  there  !  when  I  first  entered,  the 
glare  of  light  dazzled  my  eyes  ;  my  head  whirled,  and  I 
felt  as  if  I  were  treading  on  air ;  all  was  so  gay,  so  bril 
liant  !  but  I  grew  tired  at  last,  and  was  glad  to  hear  sis 
ter  say  it  was  time  to  go  home.'  " 

The  next  day  the  ball  was  dismissed  from  her  mind, 
and  she  returned  to  her  studies  with  her  customary  ar- 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON.      239 

dor.  During  the  winter  she  read  "  Josephus,"  "  Charles 
the  Fifth,"  "  Charles  Twelfth  ; "  read  over  "  Shakspeare," 
and  various  other  works  in  prose  and  poetry ;  she  par 
ticularly  liked  "  Addison,"  and  read  almost  every  day  a 
portion  of  the  "  Spectator."  Her  ardent  love  of  literature 
seldom  interfered  with  her  social  dispositions,  never  with 
her  domestic  affections  ;  she  was  ever  the  life  and  joy  of 
the  home  circle.  Great  demands  were  made  on  her 
feelings  about  this  time,  by  two  extraordinary  domestic 
events,  —  the  marriage  and  removal  of  her  elder  sister, 
her  beloved  friend  and  companion,  and  the  birth  of  an 
other,  the  little  Margaret,  so  often  the  fond  subject  of 
her  poetry.  New  and  doubtless  sanative  emotions  were 
called  forth  by  this  last  event.  The  lines  entitled  "  On 
the  Birth  of  a  Sister,"  were  written  about  this  time ;  and 
"  The  Smile  of  Innocence,"  marked,  we  think,  by  more 
originality  and  beauty,  were  written  soon  after,  and,  as 
the  previously  mentioned  ones  were,  with  her  infant  sis 
ter  in  her  lap.  What  a  subject  for  a  painter  would  this 
beautiful  impersonation  of  genius  and  love  have  pre 
sented  ! 

The  last  three  most  beautiful  stanzas,  which  we  here 
quote,  must  have  been  inspired  by  the  sleeping  infant 
on  her  lap,  and  they  seem  to  have  reflected  her  soul's 
image,  as  we  have  seen  the  little  inland  lake  catch 
and  give  back  the  marvelous  beauty  of  the  sunset 
clouds. 

"But  there's  a  smile,  'tis  sweeter  still, 

Tis  one  far  dearer  to  my  soul ; 
It  is  a  smile  which  angels  might 

Upon  their  brightest  list  enroll. 


240      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRE TIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

"  It  is  the  smile  of  innocence, 

Of  sleeping  infancy's  light  dream  ; 
Like  lightning  on  a  summer's  eve, 
It  sheds  a  soft  and  pensive  gleam. 

"  It  dances  round  the  dimpled  cheek, 

And  tells  of  happiness  within  ; 

It  smiles  what  it  can  never  speak,  — 

A  human  heart  devoid  of  sin." 

"  Soon  after  her  marriage,"  says  Mrs.  Davidson,  "  her 
sister,  Mrs.  Townsend,  removed  to  Canada ;  and  many 
circumstances  combined  to  interrupt  her  literary  pur 
suits,  and  call  forth,  not  only  the  energies  of  her  mind 
but  to  develop  the  filial  devotion  and  total  sacrifice 
of  all  selfish  feelings,  which  gave  a  new  and  elevated 
tone  to  her  character,  and  showed  us  that  there  was 
no  gratification,  either  in  pursuance  of  mental  improve 
ment,  or  personal  ease,  but  must  bend  to  her  high 
standard  of  filial  duty."  Her  mother  was  very  ill,  and 
to  add  to  the  calamity,  her  monthly  nurse  was  taken 
sick,  and  left  her  ;  the  infant,  too,  was  ill.  Lucretia 
sustained  her  multiplied  cares  with  firmness  and  effi 
ciency  :  the  conviction  that  she  was  doing  her  duty 
gave  her  strength  almost  preternatural.  I  shall  again 
quote  her  mother's  words,  for  I  fear  to  enfeeble,  by 
any  version  of  my  own,  the  beautiful  example  of  this 
conscientious  little  being.  "  Lucretia  astonished  us  all ; 
she  took  her  station  in  my  sick-room,  and  devoted  her 
self  wholly  to  the  mother  and  the  child  ;  and  when  my 
recovery  became  doubtful,  instead  of  resigning  herself 
to  grief,  her  exertions  were  redoubled,  not  only  for  the 
comfort  of  the  sick,  but  she  was  an  angel  of  conso- 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA    MARIA   DAVIDSON.     241 

lation  to  her  afflicted  father.  We  were  amazed  at  the 
exertions  she  made,  and  the  fatigue  she  endured  ;  for, 
with  nerves  so  weak,  a  constitution  so  delicate,  and 
sensibility  so  exquisite,  we  trembled  lest  she  should 
sink  with  anxiety  and  fatigue.  Until  it  ceased  to  be 
necessary,  she  performed  not  only  the  duty  of  a  nurse, 
but  acted  as  superintendent  of  the  household."  When 
her  mother  became  convalescent,  Lucretia  continued  her 
attentions  to  domestic  affairs.  "  She  did  not  so  much 
yield  to  her  ruling  passion  as  to  look  into  a  book,  or 
take  up  a  pen  (says  her  mother)  lest  she  should  again 
become  so  absorbed  in  them  as  to  neglect  to  perform 
those  little  offices  which  a  feeble,  affectionate  mother 
had  a  right  to  claim  at  her  hands."  As  was  to  be 
expected  from  the  intimate  union  of  soul  and  body, 
when  her  mind  was  starved,  it  became  dejected  and  her 
body  weak  ;  and,  in  spite  of  her  filial  efforts,  her  mother 
detected  tears  on  her  cheeks,  was  alarmed  by  her  ex 
cessive  paleness,  and  expressed  her  apprehensions  that 
she  was  ill.  "  No,  mamma,"  she  replied,  "  not  ill,  only 
out  of  spirits."  Her  mother  then  remarked  that  of  late 
she  never  read  or  wrote.  She  burst  into  tears,  a  full 
explanation  followed,  and  the  generous  mother  succeed 
ed  in  convincing  her  child  that  she  had  been  misguided 
in  the  course  she  had  adopted  ;  that  the  strongest  wish 
of  her  heart  was  to  advance  her  in  her  literary  career, 
and  for  this  she  would  make  every  exertion  in  her  power  ; 
at  the  same  time  she  very  judiciously  advised  her  to 
intersperse  her  literary  pursuits  with  those  domestic 
occupations  so  essential  to  prepare  every  woman  in  oui 
land  for  a  housewife,  her  probable  destiny. 

16 


242       BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

This  conversation  had  a  most  happy  effect ;  the 
stream  flowed  again  in  its  natural  channel,  and  Lucre- 
tia  became  cheerful,  read  and  wrote,  and  practiced 
drawing.  She  had  a  decided  taste  for  drawing,  and 
excelled  in  it.  She  sung  over  her  work,  and  in  every 
way  manifested  the  healthy  condition  that  results  from 
a  wise  obedience  to  the  laws  of  nature. 

We  trust  there  are  thousands  of  young  ladies  in  our 
land,  who,  at  the  call  of  filial  duty,  would  cheerfully  per 
form  domestic  labor ;  but  if  there  are  any  who  would 
make  a  strong  love  for  more  elevated  and  refined  pur 
suits  an  excuse  for  neglecting  these  coarser  duties,  we 
would  commend  them  to  the  example  of  this  consci 
entious  child.  She,-  if  any  could,  might  have  pleaded 
her  genius,  or  her  delicate  health,  or  her  mother's  most 
tender  indulgence,  for  a  failure,  that  in  her  would  have 
hardly  seemed  to  us  a  fault. 

During  this  summer,  she  went  to  Canada  with  her 
mother,  where  she  reveled  in  an  unexplored  library, 
and  enjoyed  most  heartily  the  social  pleasures  at  her 
sister's.  They  frequently  had  a  family  concert  of  music 
in  the  evening.  Mrs.  Townsend  (her  sister)  accom 
panied  the  instruments  with  her  fine  voice.  Lucretia 
was  often  moved  by  the  music,  and  particularly  by  her 
favorite  song,  Moore's  "  Farewell  to  my  Harp  ; "  this 
she  would  have  sung  to  her  at  twilight,  when  it  would 
excite  a  shivering  through  her  whole  frame.  On  one 
occasion,  she  became  cold  and  pale,  and  was  near  faint 
ing,  and  afterwards  poured  her  excited  feelings  forth 
in  the  lines  addressed  "  To  my  Sister." 

We  insert  here  a  striking  circumstance  that  occurred 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON.     243 

during  a  visit  to  her  sister  the  following  year.  She 
was  at  that  time  employed  in  writing  her  longest  pub 
lished  poem,  "  Amir  Khan."  Immediately  after  break 
fast  she  went  to  walk  ;  and  not  returning  to  dinner, 
nor  even  when  the  evening  approached,  Mr.  Townsend 
set  forth  in  search  of  her.  He  met  her,  and  as  her 
eye  encountered  his,  she  smiled  and  blushed,  as  if  she 
felt  conscious  of  having  been  a  little  ridiculous.  She 
said  she  had  called  on  a  friend,  and,  having  found  her 
absent,  had  gone  to  her  library,  where  she  had  been 
examining  some  volumes  of  an  Encyclopedia  to  aid 
her,  we  believe,  in  the  Oriental  story  she  was  employed 
upon.  She  forgot  her  dinner  and  her  tea,  and  had 
remained  reading,  standing,  and  with  her  hat  on,  till 
the  disappearance  of  daylight  brought  her  to  her  senses. 
In  the  interval  between  her  visits,  she  wrote  several 
letters  to  her  friends,  which  are  chiefly  interesting  from 
the  indications  they  afford  of  her  social  and  affectionate 
spirit.  We  subjoin  a  few  extracts.  She  had  returned 
to  Plattsburg  amid  the  bustle  of  a  Fourth  of  July  cel 
ebration. 

"We  found,"  she  says,  "our  brother  Yankees  had 
turned  out  well  to  celebrate  the  Fourth.  The  wharf, 
from  the  hill  to  the  very  edge  of  the  water,  even  the 
rafts  and  sloops,  were  black  with  the  crowd.  If  some 
very  good  genius,  who  presided  over  my  destiny  at 
that  time,  had  not  spread  its  protecting  pinions  around 
me,  like  everything  else  in  my  possession,  I  should 
have  lost  even  my  precious  self.  What  a  truly  lament 
able  accident 'it  would  have  been  just  at  that  moment! 
We  took  a  carriage,  and  were  extricating  ourselves 


244      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

from  the  crowd,  when  Mr. -,  who  had  pressed  him 
self  through,  came  to  shake  hands  and  bid  good- 

by.       Pie    is    now    on    his  way    to .     Well  !    here 

is  health,  happiness,  and  a  bushel  of  love  to  all  mar 
ried  people !  Is  it  possible,  you  ask,  that  sister  Lue 
could  ever  have  permitted  such  a  toast  to  pass  her 
lips  ?  We  arrived  safely  at  our  good  old  home,  and 
found  everything  as  we  left  it.  The  chimney  swallows 
had  taken  up  their  residence  in  the  chimney,  and  rat 
tled  the  soot  from  their  sable  habitations  over  the 
hearth  and  carpet.  It  looked  like  desolation  indeed. 
The  grass  is  high  in  the  yard  ;  the  wild-roses,  double- 
roses,  and  sweet-briers  are  in  full  bloom,  an.d,  take  it  all 
in  all,  the  spot  looks  much  as  the  garden  of  Eden  did 
after  the  expulsion  of  Adam  and  Eve.  We  had  just 
done  tea  when  M.  came  in  and  sat  an  hour  or  two. 
What  in  the  name  of  wonder  could  he  have  found  to 
talk  about  all  that  time  ?  Something,  dear  sister,  you 
would  not  have  thought  of;  something  of  so  little  con 
sequence  that  the  time  he  spent  glided  swiftly,  almost 
unnoticed.  I  had  him  all  to  myself,  tete-a-tete.  I  had 
almost  forg6tten  to  tell  you  I  had  yesterday  a  present 
of  a  most  beautiful  bouquet :  I  wore  it  to  church  in  the 
afternoon  ;  but  it  has  withered  and  faded,  — 

'  Withered,  like  the  world's  treasures, 
Faded,  like  the  world's  pleasures-'  " 

From  the  sort  of  mystical,  girl-like  allusions  in  the 
above  extracts,  to  persons  whose  initials  only  are  given, 
to  bouquets  and  tete-a-tetes,  we  infer  that  she  thus  early 
had  declared  lovers  even  at  this  age,  for  she  was  not 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON.      245 

yet  sixteen :  her  mother  says  she  had  resolved  never 
to  marry.  v "  Her  reasons,"  continues  her  mother,  "  for 
this  decision  were,  that  her  peculiar  habits,  her  entire 
devotion  to  her  books,  and  scribbling  (as  she  called  it) 
unfitted  her  for  the  care  of  a  family ;  she  could  not  do 
justice  to  husband  or  children,  while  her  whole  soul 
was  absorbed  in  literary  pursuits  ;  she  was  not  willing 
to  resign  them  for  any  man  ;  therefore  she  had  formed 
the  resolution  to  lead  a  single  life,"  —  a  resolution  that 
would  have  lasted  probably  till  she  had  passed  under 
the  dominion  of  a  stronger  passion  than  her  love  for 
the  Muses.  With  affections  like  hers,  and  a  most 
lovely  person  and  attractive  manners,  her  resolution 
would  scarcely  have  enabled  her  to  escape  the  common 
destiny  of  her  sex.  The  following  is  an  extract  from  a 
letter  written  after  participating  in  several  gay  parties : 
"  Indeed,  my  dear  brother,  I  have  turned  round  like  a 
top  for  the  last  two  or  three  weeks,  and  am  glad  to 
seat  myself  once  more  in  my  favorite  corner.  How, 
think  you,  should  I  stand  it  to  be  whirled  in  the  giddy 
round  of  dissipation  ?  I  come  home  from  the  blaze  of 
light,  from  the  laugh  of  mirth,  the  smile  of  complai 
sance,  and  seeming  happiness,  and  the  vision  passes 
from  my  mind  like  the  brilliant  but  transitory  hues  of 
the  rainbow  ;  and  I  think  with  regret  on  the  many, 
very  many  happy  hours  I  have  passed  with  you  and 
Annie.  O  !  I  do  want  to  see  you,  indeed  I  do.  You 
think  me  wild,  thoughtless,  and  perhaps  unfeeling; 
but  I  assure  you  I  can  be  sober.  I  sometimes  think, 
and  I  can  and  do  feel.  Why  have  you  not  written? 
not  one  word  in  almost  three  weeks!  Dear  brother 


246       BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCKETIA  MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

and  sister,  I  must  write ;  but,  dear  Annie,  I  am  now 
doomed  to  dim  your  eye  and  cloud  your  brow,  for  I 
know  that  what  I  have  to  communicate  will  surprise 
and  distress  you.  Our  dear  cousin  John  is  dead  !  O ! 
I  need  not  tell  you  how  much,  how  deeply  he  is  la 
mented  ;  you  knew  him,  and  like  every  one  else  who 
did,  you  loved  him.  Poor  Eliza !  how  my  heart  aches 
for  her  !  her  father,  her  mother,  her  brother,  all  gone  ; 
almost  the  last,  the  dearest  tie  is  broken  which  bound 
her  to  life  ;  what  a  vacancy  must  there  be  in  her  heart ! 
How  fatal  would  it  prove  to  almost  every  hope  in  life, 
were  we  allowed  even  a  momentary  glimpse  of  futurity ! 
for  often  half  the  enjoyments  of  life  consist  in  the  an 
ticipation  of  pleasures,  which  may  never  be  ours." 
Soon  after  this  Lucretia  witnessed  the  death  of  a  be 
loved  young  friend ;  it  was  the  first  death  she  had 
seen,  and  it  had  its  natural  effect  on  a  reflecting  and 
sensitive  mind.  Her  thoughts  wandered  through  eter 
nity  by  the  light  of  religion,  the  only  light  that  pene 
trates  beyond  the  death-bed.  She  wrote  many  relig 
ious  pieces,  —  and  among  them  one  commencing  with 

"  O  that  the  eagle's  wing  were  mine." 

During  this  winter  her  application  to  her  books  was 
so  unremitting  that  her  parents  again  became  alarmed 
for  her  health,  and  persuaded  her  occasionally  to  join  in 
the  amusements  of  Plattsburg.  She  came  home  one 
night  at  twelve  o'clock,  from  a  ball  ;  and,  after  giving  a 
most  lively  account  of  all  she  had  seen  and  heard  to  her 
mother,  she  quietly  seated  herself  at  the  table,  and  wrote 
her  "  Reflections  after  leaving  a  Ball-room."  Her  spirit, 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA  DAVIDSON.      247 

though  it  glided  with  kind  sympathies  into  the  common 
pleasures  of  youth,  never  seemed  to  relax  its  tie  to  the 
spiritual  world. 

During  the  summer  of  1824,  Captain  Partridge  visited 
Plattsburg,  with  his  soldier  scholars.  Military  display 
had  its  usual  exciting  effect  on  Miss  Davidson's  imao;i- 

o  o 

nation,  and  she  addressed  to  the  "  Vermont  Cadets " 
several  spirited  stanzas,  which  might  have  come  from  the 
martial  Clorinda. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  she  finished  "  Amir  Khan," 
and  began  a  tale  of  some  length,  which  she  entitled  the 
"  Recluse  of  the  Saranac."  "  Amir  Khan "  has  long 
been  before  the  public  ;  but  we  think  it  has  suffered  from 
a  general  and  very  natural  distrust  of  precocious  genius. 
The  versification  is  graceful,  the  story  beautifully  devel 
oped,  and  the  Orientalism  well  sustained.  We  think  it 
would  not  have  done  discredit  to  our  best  popular  poets 
in  the  meridian  of  their  fame  :  as  the  production  of  a 
girl  of  fifteen,  it  seems  prodigious.  On  her  mother  dis 
covering  and  reading  a  part  of  her  romance,  Lucretia 
manifested  her  usual  shrinkings,  and  with  many  tears 
exacted  a  promise  that  she  would  not  again  look  at  it  till 
it  was  finished  ;  she  never  again  saw  it  till  after  her 
daughter's  death.  Lucretia  had  a  most  whimsical  fancy 
for  cutting  sheets  of  paper,  into  narrow  strips,  sewing 
them  together,  and  writing  on  both  sides  ;  and  once 
playfully  boasting  to  her  mother  of  having  written  some 
yards,  she  produced  a  roll,  and  forbidding  her  mother's 
approach,  she  measured  off  twenty  yards  !  She  often  ex 
pressed  a  wish  to  spend  one  fortnight  alone,  even  to  the 
exclusion  of  her  little  pet  sister ;  and  Mrs.  Davidson, 


248     BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

eager  to  afford  her  every  gratification  in  her  power,  had 
a  room  prepared  for  her  recess  ;  her  dinner  was  sent  up 
to  her,  she  declined  coming  down  to  tea,  and  her  mother, 
on  going  to  her  apartment,  found  her  writing,  —  her 
plate  untouched. 

Some  secret  joy  it  was  natural  her  mother  should  feel 
at  this  devotion  to  intellectual  pleasure  ;  but  her  good 
sense  or  her  maternal  anxiety  got  the  better  of  it,  and 
she  persuaded  Lucretia  to  consent  to  the  interruption  of 
a  daily  walk.  It  was  about  this  period  that  she  became 
acquainted  with  the  gentleman  who  was  destined  to  in 
fluence  the  brief  space  of  life  that  remained  to  her. 
The  late  Hon.  Moss  Kent,  with  whom  her  mother  had 
been  acquainted  for  many  years  previous  to  her  mar 
riage,  had  often  been  a  guest  at  the  house  of  Dr.  David 
son,  but  it  had  so  happened  that  he  had  never  met  Lu 
cretia  since  her  early  childhood.  Struck  with  some  little 
effusions  which  were  in  the  possession  of  his  sister,  Mrs. 

P ,  he  went  immediately  to  see   Mrs.   Davidson,  to 

ask  the  privilege  of  reading  some  of  her  last  productions. 
On  his  way  to  the  house  he  met  Lucretia  ;  he  had  been 
interested  by  the  reputation  of  her  genius  and  modesty  ; 
no  wonder  that  the  beautiful  form  in  which  it  was  en 
shrined,  should  have  called  this  interest  into  sudden  and 
effective  action.  Miss  Davidson  was  just  sixteen  ;  her 
complexion  was  the  most  beautiful  brunette,  clear  and 
brilliant,  of  that  warm  tint  that  seems  to  belong  to  lands 
of  the  sun  rather  than  to  our  chilled  regions  ;  indeed, 
her  whole  organization,  mental  as  well  as  physical,  her 
deep  and  quick  sensibility,  her  early  development,  were 
characteristics  of  a  warmer  clime  than  ours  ;  her  stature 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON.      249 

was  of  the  middle  height,  her  form  slight  and  symmet 
rical,  her  hair  profuse,  dark,  and  curling,  her  mouth  and 
nose  regular,  and  as  beautiful  as  if  they  had  been  chis 
eled  by  an  inspired  artist ;  and  through  this  fitting  me 
dium  beamed  her  angelic  spirit.  "  Mr.  Kent,  with  all 
the  enthusiasm  inherent  in  his  nature,  after  examining 
her  commonplace-book,  resolved,  if  he  could  induce  her 
parents  to  resign  Lucretia  to  his  care,  to  afford  her  every 
facility  for  improvement  that  could  be  obtained  in  the 
country ;  and  in  short,  he  proposed  to  adopt  her  as  his 
own  child.  Her  parents  took  the  subject  into  consid 
eration,  and  complied  so  far  with  his  benevolent  wishes 
as  to  permit  him  to  take  an  active  interest  in  her  educa 
tion,  deferring  to  future  consideration  the  question  of 
his  adopting  her.  Had  she  lived,  they  would,  no  doubt, 
have  consented  to  his  plan.  It  was,  after  some  delib 
eration,  decided  to  send  her  a  few  months  to  the  Troy 
Seminary  ;  and  on  the  same  evening  she  wrote  the  fol 
lowing  letter  to  her  brother  and  sister  :  — 

"  What  think  you  ?  '  ere  another  moon  shall  fill,  round 
as  my  shield,'  I  shall  be  at  Mrs.  Willard's  seminary  ;  in 
a  fortnight  I  shall  probably  have  left  Plattsburg,  not  to 
return  at  least  until  the  expiration  of  six  months.  O  !  I 
am  so  delighted,  so  happy  !  I  shall  scarcely  eat,  drink,  or 
sleep  for  a  month  to  come.  You  and  Anne  must  both 
write  to  me  often  ;  and  you  must  not  laugh  when  you 
think  of  poor  Luly  in  the  far-famed  city  of  Troy,  drop 
ping  handkerchiefs,  keys,  gloves,  etc.  ;  in  short,  some 
thing  of  everything  I  have.  It  is  well  if  you  can  read 
what  I  have  written,  for  papa  and  mamma  are  talking, 
and  my  head  whirls  like  a  top.  O  !  how  my  poor  head 
aches  !  Such  a  surprise  as  I  have  had  ! " 


250      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRE  TIA   MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

On  the  24th  of  November,  1824,  she  left  home,  health 
on  her  cheek  and  in  her  bosom,  and  flushed  with  the 
most  ardent  expectations  of  getting  rapidly  forward  in 
the  career  her  desires  were  fixed  upon.  But  even  at 
this  moment  her  fond  devotion  to  her  mother  was  beau 
tifully  expressed,  in  some  stanzas  which  she  left  where 
they  would  meet  her  eye  as  soon  as  the  parting  tears 
were  wiped  away.  These  stanzas  are  already  published, 
and  I  shall  only  quote  two  from  them,  striking  for  their 
tenderness  and  truth. 

"To  thee  my  lay  is  due,  the  simple  song 

Which  nature  gave  me  at  life's  opening  day  ; 
To  thee  these  rude,  these  untaught  strains  belong, 
Whose  heart,  indulgent,  will  not  spurn  my  lay  ! 

"  O  say,  amid  this  wilderness  of  life 

What  bosom  would  have  throbbed  like  thine  for  me  ? 
Who  would  have  smiled  responsive  ?     Who  in  grief 
Would  e'er  have  felt,  and,  feeling,  grieved  like  thee  ? " 

The  following  extracts  from  her  letters,  which  were 
always  filled  with  yearnings  for  home,  will  show  that  her 
affections  were  the  stronghold  of  her  nature  :  — 

"  Troy  Seminary,  December  6th,  1824.  —  Here  I  am  at 
last ;  and  what  a  naughty  girl  I  was,  when  I  was  at 
Aunt  Schuyler's,  that  I  did  not  write  you  everything ! 
But  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was  topsy-turvy,  and  so  I  am  now  ; 
but  in  despite  of  calls  from  the  young  ladies,  and  of  a 
hundred  new  faces,  and  new  names  which  are  constantly 
ringing  in  my  ears,  I  have  set  myself  down,  and  will  not 
rise  until  I  have  written  an  account  of  everything  to  my 
dear  mother.  I  am  contented  ;  yet,  notwithstanding,  I 
have  once  or  twice  turned  a  wishful  glance  towards  my 


BIOGRAPHY   OF  LUCRETTA    MARIA   DAVIDSON.      251 

dear-loved  home.  Amidst  all  the  parade  of  wealth,  in 
the  splendid  apartments  of  luxury,  I  can  assure  you,  my 
dearest  mother,  that  I  had  rather  be  with  you  in  our  own 
loivly  home  than  in  the  midst  of  all  this  ceremony." 

"  O  mamma,  I  like  Mrs.  Willard.  '  And  so  this  is 
my  girl,  Mrs.  Schuyler  ? '  said  she,  and  took  me  affec 
tionately  by  the  hand.  O,  I  want  to  see  you  so  much  ! 
But  I  must  not  think  of  it  now.  I  must  learn  as  fast  as 

t 

I  can,  and  think  only  of  my  studies.  Dear,  dear  little 
Margaret !  kiss  her  and  the  little  boys  for  me.  How  is 
dear  father  getting  on  in  this  rattling  world  ?  " 

The  letters  that  followed  were  tinged  with  melancholy 
from  her  "  bosom's  depth,"  and  her  mother  has  withheld 
them.  In  a  subsequent  one  she  says,  "  I  have  written 
two  long  letters  ;  but  I  wrote  when  I  was  ill,  and  they 
savor  too  much  of  sadness.  I  feel  a  little  better  now, 
and  have  again  commenced  my  studies.  Mr.  K.  called 
here  to-day.  O,  he  is  very  good !  He  stayed  some  time, 
and  brought  a  great  many  books ;  but  I  fear  I  shall  have 
little  time  to  read  aught  but  what  appertains  to  my  stud 
ies.  I  am  consulting  Kames's  '  Elements  of  Criticism,' 
studying  French,  attending  to  geological  lectures,  com 
position,  reading,  paying  some  little  attention  to  painting, 
and  learning  to  dance." 

A  subsequent  letter  indicated  great  unhappiness  and 
debility,  and  awakened  her  mother's  apprehensions. 
The  next  was  written  more  cheerfully.  "As  I  fly  to 
you,"  she  says,  "  for  consolation  in  all  my  sorrows,  so  I 
turn  to  you,  my  clear  mother,  to  participate  in  all  my 
joys.  The  clouds  that  enveloped  my  mind  have  dis 
persed,  and  I  turn  to  you  with  a  far  lighter  heart  than 


252      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA    MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

when  I  last  wrote.  The  ever  kind  Mr.  K.  called  yester 
day."  She  then  describes  the  paternal  interest  he  took 
in  her  health  and  happiness,  expresses  a  trembling  ap 
prehension  lest  he  should  be  disappointed  in  the  amount 
of  her  improvement,  and  laments  the  loss  of  time  from 
her  frequent  indisposition.  "  How,  my  dear  mother," 
she  says,  "  shall  I  express  my  gratitude  to  my  kind,  my 
excellent  friend  ?  What  is  felt  as  deeply  as  I  feel  this 
obligation,  cannot  be  expressed  :  but  I  can  feel,  and  do 
feel."  It  must  be  remembered  that  these  were  not  for 
mal  and  obligatory  letters  to  her  guardian,  but  the  spon 
taneous  overflowing  of  her  heart  in  her  private  corre 
spondence  with  her  mother. 

"  We  now  begin  to  dread  the  examination.  O,  hor 
rible  !  seven  weeks,  and  I  shall  be  posted  up  before 
all  Troy,  all  the  students  from  Schenectady,  and  per 
haps  five  hundred  others.  What  shall  I  do  ? 

"  I  have  just  received  a  note  from  Mr.  K.,  in  which 
he  speaks  of  your  having  written  to  him  of  my  illness. 
I  was  indeed  ill,  and  very  ill,  for  several  days,  and  in 
my  deepest  dejection  wrote  to  you  ;  but  do  not,  my 
dearest  mother,  be  alarmed  about  me.  My  appetite  is 
not  perfectly  good,  but  quite  as  well  as  when  I  was 
at  home.  The  letter  was  just  such  a  one  as  was  cal 
culated  to  soothe  my  feelings,  and  set  me  completely 
at  rest.  He  expressed  a  wish  that  my  stay  here  should 
be  prolonged.  What  think  you,  mother?  I  should  be 
delighted  by  such  an  arrangement.  This  place  really 
seems  quite  like  home  to  me,  though  not  my  own 
dear  home.  I  like  Mrs.  Willard,  I  love  the  girls,  and 
I  have  the  vanity  to  think  I  am  not  actually  disagree 
able  to  them." 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON.      253 

We  come  now  to  another  expression  (partly  serious 
and  partly  bantering,  for  she  seems  to  have  uniformly 
respected  her  instructress)  of  her  terrors  of  "  exami 
nation." 

"We  are  engaged,  heart  and  hand,  preparing  for 
this  awful  examination.  O,  how  I  dread  it !  But 
there  is  no  retreat.  I  must  stand  firm  to  my  post,  or 
experience  all  the  anger,  vengeance,  and  punishments, 
which  will,  in  case  of  delinquency  or  flight,  be  exercised 
with  the  most  unforgiving  acrimony.  We  are  in  such 
cases  excommunicated,  henceforth  and  forever,  under 
the  awful  ban  of  holy  Seminary ;  and  the  evil  eye  of 
false  report  is  upon  us.  O  mamma,  I  do,  though,  jest 
ing  apart,  dread  this  examination  ;  but  nothing  short 
of  real  and  absolute  sickness  can  excuse  a  scholar  in 
the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Willard.  Even  that  will  not  do  it  to 
the  Trojan  world  around  us  ;  for  if  a  young  lady  is  ill 
at  examination,  they  say,  with  a  sneer,  '  O,  she  is  ill 
of  an  examination  fever ! '  Thus  you  see,  mamma,  we 
have  no  mercy  either  from  friends  or  foes.  We  must 
'  do  or  die!  Tell  Morris  he  must  write  to  me.  Kiss 
dear,  dear  little  Margaret  for  me,  and  don't  let  her  forget 
poor  sister  Luly,  and  tell  all  who  inquire  for  me  that 
I  am  well,  but  in  awful  dread  of  a  great  examination." 

The  following  extract  is  from  a  letter  to  her  friends, 
who  had  written  under  the  impression  that  all  letters 
received  by  the  young  ladies  were,  of  course,  read  by 
some  one  of  the  officers  of  the  institution  :  — 

"  Lo !  just  as  I  was  descending  from  the  third  story 
(for  you  must  know  I  hold  my  head  high),  your  letter 
was  put  into  my  hands.  Poor  little  wanderer  !  I  really 


254     BfOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRE TIA   MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

felt  a  sisterly  compassion  for  the  poor  little  folded 
paper.  I  kissed  it  for  the  sake  of  those  who  sent  it 
forth  into  the  wide  world,  and  put  it  into  my  bosom. 
But  O,  when  I  read  it !  Now,  Anne,  I  will  tell  you 
the  truth ;  it  was  cold  ;  perhaps  it  was  written  on  one  of 
your  cold  Canada  days,  or  perchance  it  lost  a  little  heat 
on  the  way.  It  did  not  seem  to  come  from  the  very 
heart  of  hearts  ;  it  looked  as  though  it  were  written  '  to 
a  young  lady  at  the  Troy  Seminary,'  not  to  your  dear, 
dear,  dear  sister  Lilly.  Mr.  K.  has  thus  far  been  a  father 
to  me,  and  I  thank  him  ;  but  I  will  not  mock  my  feelings 
by  attempting  to  say  how  much  I  thank  him." 

"  My  dear  mother  !  O  how  I  wish  I  could  lay  my  head 
upon  your  bosom  !  I  hope  you  do  not  keep  my  letters, 
for  I  certainly  have  burned  all  yours  ;  *  and  I  stood  like  a 
little  fool  and  wept  over  their  ashes  ;  and  when  I  saw  the 
last  one  gone,  I  felt  as  though  I  had  parted  with  my  last 
friend."  Then,  after  expressing  an  earnest  wish  that 
her  mother  would  destroy  her  letters,  she  says,  "  They 
have  no  connection.  When  I  write,  everything  comes 
crowding  upon  me  at  once  ;  my  pen  moves  too  slow  for 
my  brain  and  my  heart,  and  I  feel  vexed  at  myself,  and 
tumble  in  everything  together,  and  a  choice  medley  you 
have  of  it  ! 

.  "  I  attended  Mr.  Ball's  public  (assembly)  last  night, 
and  had  a  delightful  evening  ;  but  now  for  something  of 
more  importance,  —  Ex-am-i-na-tion  !  I  had  just  begun 
to  be  engaged,  heart  and  hand,  preparing  for  it,  when, 
by  some  means,  I  took  a  violent  cold.  I  was  unable  to 
raise  my  voice  above  a  whisper,  and  coughed  incessantly. 

*  This  was  in  consequence  of  a  positive  command  from  her  mother. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LIJCKETIA    MARIA   DAVIDSOX.      255 

On  the  second  day,  Mrs.  Willard  sent  for  Dr.  Robbins  ; 
he  said  I  must  be  bled,  and  take  an  emetic  ;  this  was 
sad  ;  but,  O  mamma,  I  could  not  speak  or  breathe  with 
out  pain."  There  are  further  details  of  pains,  remedies, 
and  consequent  exhaustion  ;'  and  yet  this  fragile  and 
precious  creature  was  permitted  by  her  physician  and 
friends,  kind  and  watchful  friends  too,  to  proceed  in  her 
suicidal  preparations  for  examination  !  There  was  noth 
ing  uncommon  in  this  injudiciousness.  Such  violations 
of  the  laws  of  our  physical  nature  are  every  day  com 
mitted  by  persons  in  other  respects  the  wisest  and  the 
best  ;  and  our  poor  little  martyr  may  not  have  suffered 
in  vain,  if  her. experience  awakens  attention  to  the  sub 
ject. 

In  the  letter  from  which  we  have  quoted  above,  and 
which  is  filled  with  expressions  of  love  for  the  dear  ones 
at  home,  she  continues  :  "  Tell  Morris  I  will  answer  his 
letter  in  full  next  quarter ;  but  now  I  fear  I  am  doing 
wrong,  for  I  am  yet  quite  feeble;  and  when  I  get 
stronger,  I  shall  be  very  avaricious  of.  my  time,  in  order 
to  prepare  for  the  coming  week. 

"  We  must  study  morning,  noon,  and  night.  /  shall 
rise  between  two  and  four  noiv  ev.ery  morning,  till  the 
dreaded  day  is  past.  I  rose  the  other  night  at  twelve, 
but  was  ordered  back  to  bed  again.  You  see,  mamma, 
I  shall  have  a  chance  to  become  an  early  riser  here." 
"  Had  I  not  written  you  that  I  was  coming  home,  I 
think  I  should  not  have  seen  you  this  winter.  All  my 
friends  think  I  had  better  remain  here,  as  the  journey 
will  be  long  and  cold  ;  but  O  !  there  is  that  at  the  jour 
ney's  end  which  would  tempt  me  through  the  wilds  of 


256      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

Siberia,  —  father,  mother,  brothers,  sisters,  home.     Yes,  I 
shall  come." 

We  insert  some  stanzas  written  about  this  time,  not 
so  much  for  their  poetical  merit  as  for  the  playful  spirit 
that  beams  through  them,  and  which  seems  like  sun 
beams  smiling  on  a  cataract. 

A  WEEK  BEFORE  EXAMINATION*. 

One  has  a  headache,  one  a  cold, 
One  has  her  neck  in  flannel  rolled  ; 
Ask  the  complaint,  and  you  are  told, 

"  Next  week's  examination." 

One  frets  and  scolds,  and  laughs  and  cries  ; 
Another  hopes,  despairs,  and  sighs  ; 
Ask  but  the  cause,  and  each  replies, 

"  Next  week's  examination." 

One  bans  her  books,  then  grasps  them  tight, 
And  studies  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
As  though  she  took  some  strange  delight 
In  these  examinations. 

The  books  are  marked,  defaced,  and  thumbed, 
The  brains  with  midnight  tasks  benumbed, 
Still  all  in  that  account  is  summed, 

"  Next  week's  examination." 

In  a  letter,  February  loth,  she  says,  "  The  dreaded 
work  of  examination  is  now  going  on,  my  dear  mother. 
To-morrow  evening,  which  will  be  the  last,  and  is  always 
the  most  crowded,  is  the  time  fixed  upon  for  my  entree 
upon  the  field  of  action.  O !  I  hope  I  shall  not  disgrace 
myself.  It  is  the  rule  here  to  reserve  the  best  classes 
till  the  last ;  so  I  suppose  I  may  take  it  as  a  compliment 
that  we  are  delayed." 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRE TI A    MARIA    DAVIDSON.      257 

"February  I2th.  —  The  examination  is  over.     E 

E did  herself  and  her  native  village  honor ;  but  as 

for  your  poor  Luly,  she  acquitted  herself,  I  trust,  de 
cently  !  O  mamma,  I  was  so  frightened !  but,  although 
my  face  glowed  and  my  voice  trembled,  I  did  make  out 
to  get  through,  for  I  knew  my  lessons.  The  room  was 
crowded  almost  to  suffocation.  •  All  was  still,  —  the  fall 
of  a  pin  could  have  been  heard,  —  and  I  tremble  when  I 
think  of  it  even  now."  No  one  can  read  these  melan 
choly  records  without  emotion. 

Her  visit  home  during  the  vacation  was  given  up,  in 
compliance  with  the  advice  of  her  guardian.  "  I  wept  a 
good  long  hour  or  so,"  she  says,  with  her  characteristic 
gentle  acquiescence,  "  and  then  made  up  my  mind  to  be 
content." 

In  her  next  letter  she  relates  an  incident  very  striking 
in  her  eventful  life. 

It  occurred  in  returning  to  Troy,  after  her  vacation, 
passed  happily  with  her  friends  in  the  vicinity.  "  Uncle 
went  to  the  ferry  with  me,"  she  says,  "  where  we  met 
Mr.  Paris.  Uncle  placed  me  under  his  care,  and,  snugly 
seated  by  his  side,  I  expected  a  very  pleasant  ride  with 
a  very  pleasant  gentleman.  All  was  pleasant,  except 
that  we  expected  every  instant  that  all  the  ice  in  the 
Hudson  would  come  drifting  against  us,  and  shut  in 
scow,  stage,  and  all,  or  sink  us  to  the  bottom,  which,  in 
either  case,  you  know,  mother,  would  not  have  been 
quite  so  agreeable.  We  had  just  pushed  from  the  shore. 
I  watching  the  ice  with  anxious  eyes,  when,  lo !  the  two 
leaders  made  a  tremendous  plunge,  and  tumbled  head 
long  into  the  river.  I  felt  the  carriage  following  fast 


258      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA    MARIA    DAVIDSON. 

after  ;  the  other  two  horses  pulled  back  with  all  their 
power,  but  the  leaders  were  dragging  them  down,  dash 
ing  and  plunging,  and  flouncing  in  the  water.  '  Mr.  Paris, 
in  mercy  let  us  get  out ! '  said  I.  But,  as  he  did  not  see 
the  horses,  he  felt  no  alarm.  The  moment  I  informed 
him  they  were  overboard,  he  opened  the  door,  and  cried, 
'  Get  out  and  save  yourself,  if  possible  ;  I  am  old  and 
stiff,  but  I  will  follow  in  an  instant.'  '  Out  with  the  lady  ! 
let  the  lady  out ! '  shouted  several  voices  at  once  ;  '  the 
other  horses  are  about  to  plunge,  and  then  all  will  be 
over.'  I  made  a  lighter  spring  than  many  a  lady  does  in 
a  cotillon,  and  jumped  upon  a  cake  of  ice.  Mr.  Paris 
followed,  and  we  stood  (I  trembling  like  a  leaf)  expect 
ing  every  instant  that  the  next  plunge  of  the  drowning 
horses  would  detach  the  piece  of  ice  upon  which  we 
were  standing,  and  send  us  adrift  ;  but,  thank  Heaven, 
after  working  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  by  dint  of  ropes, 
and  cutting  them  away  from  the  other  horses,  they 
dragged  the  poor  creatures  out,  more  dead  than  alive. 

"  Mother,  don't  you  think  I  displayed  some  courage  ? 
I  jumped  into  the  stage  again,  and  shut  the  door,  while 
Mr.  Paris  remained  outside,  watching  the  movement  of 
affairs.  We  at  length  reached  here,  and  I  am  alive,  as 
you  see,  to  tell  the  story  of  my  woes." 

In  her  next  letter  she  details  a  conversation  with  Mrs. 
Willard,  full  of  kind  commendation  and  good  counsel. 
"  Mamma,"  she  concludes,  "  you  would  be  justified  in 
thinking  me  a  perfect  lump  of  vanity  and  egotism  ;  but 
I  have  always  related  to  you  every  thought,  every  action, 
of  my  life.  I  have  had  no  concealments  from  you,  and  I 
have  stated  these  matters  to  you  because  they  fill  me 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA  MART  A   DAVIDSON.      259 

with  surprise.  Who  would  think  the  accomplished  Mrs. 
Willard  would  admire  my  poor  daubing,  or  my  poor  any 
thing  else  !  O  dear  mamma,  I  am  so  happy  now !  so 
contented  !  Every  unusual  movement  startles  me.  I 
am  constantly  afraid  of  something  to  mar  it." 

The  next  extract  is  from  a  letter,  the  emanation  of  her 
affectionate  spirit,  to  a  favorite  brother  seven  years  old. 

"  Dear  L ,  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  two  very 

interesting  epistles,  and  much  doubt  whether  I  could 
spell  more  ingeniously  myself.  Really,  I  have  some  idea 
of  sending  them  to  the  printers,  to  be  struck  off  in  imi 
tation  of  a  Chinese  puzzle.  Your  questions  about  the 
stars  I  have  been  cogitating  some  time  past,  and  am  of 
the  opinion  that  if  there  are  beings  inhabiting  those 
heavenly  regions,  they  must  be  content  to  feed,  chame 
leon-like,  upon  air  ;  for  even  were  we  disposed  to  spare 
them  a  portion  of  our  earth  sufficient  to  plant  a  garden, 
I  doubt  whether  the  attraction  of  gravitation  would  not 
be  too  strong  for  resistance,  and  the  unwilling  clod  re 
turn  to  its  pale  brethren  of  the  valley  '  to  rest  in  ease  in 
glorious.'  So  far  from  burning  your  precious  letters,  my 
dear  little  brother,  I  carefully  preserve  them  in  a  little 
pocket-book  ;  and  when  I  feel  lonely  and  desolate,  and 
think  of  my  dear  home,  I  turn  them  over  and  over  again. 
Do  write  often,  my  sweet  little  correspondent,  and  be 
lieve  me,"  etc.,  etc. 

Her  next  letter  to  her  mother,  written  in  March,  was 
in  a  melancholy  strain  ;  but  as  if  to  avert  her  parent's 
consequent  anxieties,  she  concludes  :  — 

"  I  hope  you  will  feel  no  concern  for  my  health  or  hap 
piness.  Do,  my  dear  mother,  try  to  be  cheerful,  and 
have  good  courage." 


260      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

"  I  have  been  to  the  Rensselaer  school,  to  attend  the 
philosophical  lectures.  They  are  delivered  by  the  cele 
brated  Mr.  Eaton,  who  has  several  students,  young  gen 
tlemen.  I  hope  they  will  not  lose  their  hearts  among 
twenty  or  thirty  pretty  girls.  For  my  part,  I  kept  my 
eyes  fixed  as  fast  as  might  be  upon  the  good  old  lecturer, 
as  I  am  of  the  opinion  that  he  is  the  best  possible  safe 
guard,  with  his  philosophy  and  his  apparatus  ;  for  you 
know  philosophy  and  love  are  sworn  enemies  ! " 

Miss  Davidson  returned  to  Plattsburg  during  the 
spring  vacation.  Her  mother,  when  the  first  rapture  of 
reunion  was  over,  the  first  joy  at  finding  her  child  un 
changed  in  the  modesty  and  naturalness  of  her  deport 
ment,  and  fervor  of  her  affections,  became  alarmed  at 
the  indications  of  disease,  in  the  extreme  fragility  of  her 
person,  and  the  deep  and  fluctuating  color  of  her  cheek. 
Lucretia  insisted,  and,  deceived  by  that  ever-deceiving 
disease,  believed  she  was  well.  She  was  gay  and  full 
of  hope,  and  could  hardly  be  persuaded  to  submit  to 
her  father's  medical  prescriptions  ;  but  the  well-known 
crimson  spot,  that  so  often  flushed  her  cheek,  was  re 
garded  by  him  with  the  deepest  anxiety,  and  he  shortly 
called  counsel.  During  her  stay  at  home  she  wrote  a 
great  deal.  Like  the  bird,  which  is  to  pass  away  with 
the  summer,  she  seems  to  have  been  ever  on  the  wing, 
pouring  forth  the  spontaneous  melodies  of  her  soul. 

The  physician  called  in  to  consult  with  her  father 
was  of  opinion  that  a  change  of  air  and  scene  would 
probably  restore  her,  and  it  was  decided,  in  compliance 
with  her  own  wishes,  that  she  should  return  to  school. 

Miss    Gilbert's    boarding-school,    at   Albany,  was    se- 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRE TIA  MARIA   DAVIDSON.      261 

lected  for  the  next  six  months.  There  are  few  more  of 
her  productions  of  any  sort,  and  they  seem  to  us  to  have 
the  sweetness  of  the  last  roses  of  summer.  The  follow 
ing  playful  passages  are  from  her  last  letter  at  home  to 
her  sister  in  Canada  :  —  • 

"  The  boat  will  be  here  in  an  hour  or  two,  and  I  am 
all  ready  to  start.  O,  I  am  half  sick.  I  have  taken  sev 
eral  doses  of  something  quite  delectable  for  a  visiting 
treat.  Now,"  she  concludes  her  letter,  "  by  your  affec 
tion  for  me,  by  your  pity  for  the  wanderer,  by  your  re 
membrance  of  the  absent,  by  your  love  for  each  other, 
and  by  all  that  is  sacred  to  an  absent  friend,  I  charge 
you,  write  to  me,  and  write  often.  As  ye  hope  to  pros 
per,  as  ye  hope  your  boy  to  prosper  (and  grow  fat !),  as' 
ye  hope  for  my  gratitude  and  affection  now  and  here 
after,  I  charge  you  write.  If  ye  sinfully  neglect  this  last 
solemn  injunction  of  a  parting  friend,  my  injured  spirit 
will  visit  you  in  your  transgressions.  It  shall  pierce  you 
with  goose-quills,  and  hurl  down  upon  your  recreant 
heads  the  brimming  contents  of  the  neglected  inkstand. 
This  is  my  threat,  and  this  is  my  vengeance.  But  if,  on 
the  contrary,  ye  shall  see  fit  to  honor  me  with  numerous 
epistles,  which  shall  be  duly  answered,  know  ye,  that  I 
will  live  and  love  you,  and  not  only  you,  but  your  boy ! 
So,  you  see,  upon  your  own  bearing  depends  the  future 
fate  of  the  little  innocent,  '  to  be  beloved,  or  not  to  be 
beloved  ! '  They  have  come  !  Farewell,  a  long  fare 
well  ! " 

She  proceeded  to  Albany,  and  in  a  letter  dated  May 
1 2th,  1825,  she  seems  delighted  with  her  reception,  ac 
commodations,  and  prospects  at  Miss  Gilbert's  school. 


262      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRE TIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

She  has  yet  no  anxieties  about  her  health,  and  enters 
on  her  career  of  study  with  her  customary  ardor.  With 
the  most  delicate  health  and  constant  occupation,  she 
found  time  always  to  write  long  letters  to  her  mother 
and  the  little  children  at  home,  filled  with  fond  expres 
sions.  What  an  example  and  rebuke  to  the  idle  school 
girl  who  finds  no  time  for  these  minor  duties  !  But  her 
studies,  to  which  she  applied  herself  beyond  her  strength, 
from  the  conscientious  fear  of  not  fulfilling  the  expecta 
tions  of  her  friends,  were  exhausting  the  sources  of  life. 
Her  letters  teem  with  expressions  of  gratitude  to  her 
friend  Mr.  K.,  to  Miss  Gilbert,  and  to  all  the  friends 
around  her.  She  complains  of  debility  and  want  of  ap 
petite,  but  imputes  all  her  ailings  to  not  hearing  regu 
larly  from  home.  The  mails  were  of  course  at  fault,  for 
her  mother's  devotion  never  intermitted.  The  following 
expressions  will  show  that  her  sensibility,  naturally  acute, 
was  rendered  intense  by  physical  disease  and  suffering. 

"  O  my  dear  mother,  cannot  you  send  your  Luly  one 
line  ?  Not  one  word  in  two  weeks  !  I  have  done  noth 
ing  but  weep  all  day  long.  I  feel  so  wretchedly  !  I  am 
afraid  you  are  ill. 

"  I  am  very  wretched,  indeed  I  am.  My  dear  mother, 
am  I  never  to  hear  from  you  again  ?  I  am  homesick.  I 
know  I  am  foolish ;  but  I  cannot  help  it.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  am  half  sick.  I  am  so  weak,  so  languid,  I  cannot 
eat.  I  am  nervous,  I  know  I  am  ;  I  weep  most  of  the 
time.  I  have  blotted  the  paper  so,  that  I  cannot  write. 
I  cannot  study  much  longer,  if  I  do  not  hear  from  you." 

Letters  from  home  renovated  her  for  a  few  days  ;  and 
at  Mr.  K.'s  request,  she  went  to  the  theatre,  and  gave 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON.      263 

herself  up,  with  all  the  freshness  of  youthful  feeling,  to 
the  spells  of  the  drama,  and  raved  about  Hamlet  and 
Ophelia  like  any  other  school-girl. 

But  her  next  letter  recurs  to  her  malady,  and  for  the 
first  time  she  expresses  a  fear  that  her  disease  is  beyond 
the  reach  of  common  remedies.  Her  mother  was 
alarmed,  and  would  have  gone  immediately  to  her,  but 
she  was  herself  confined  to  her  room  by  illness.  Her 
father's  cooler  judgment  inferred,  from  their  receiving  no 
letters  from  Lucretia's  friends,  that  there  was  nothing 
immediately  alarming  in  her  symptoms. 

The  next  letter  removed  every  doubt.  It  was  scarcely 
legible  ;  still  she  assures  her  mother  she  is  better,  and 
begs  she  will  not  risk  the  consequences  of  a  long  journey. 
But  neither  health  nor  life  weighed  now  with  the  mother 
against  seeing  her  child.  She  set  off,  and,  by  appoint 
ment,  joined  Mr.  K.  at  Whitehall.  They  proceeded 
thence  to  Albany,  where,  after  the  first  emotions  of  meet 
ing  were  over,  Lucretia  said,  "  O  mamma,  I  thought  I 
should  never  have  seen  you  again  !  But,  now  I  have  you 
here,  and  can  lay  my  aching  head  upon  your  bosom,  I 
shall  soon  be  better." 

For  a  few  days  the  balm  seemed  effectual ;  she  was 
better,  and  the  physicians  believed  she  would  recover ; 
but  her  mother  was  no  longer  to  be  persuaded  from  her 
conviction  of  the  fatal  nature  of  the  disease,  and  arrange 
ments  were  immediately  made  to  convey  her  to  Platts- 
burg.  The  journey  was  effected,  notwithstanding  it  was 
during  the  heats  of  July,  with  less  physical  suffering 
than  was  apprehended.  She  shrank  painfully  from  the 
gaze  her  beauty  inevitably  attracted,  heightened  as  it 


264      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

was  by  that  disease  which  seems  to  delight  to  deck  the 
victim  for  its  triumph.  "  Her  joy  upon  finding  herself 
at  home,"  says  her  mother,  "  operated  for  a  time  like 
magic."  The  sweet  health-giving  influence  of  domestic 
love,  the  home  atmosphere,  seemed  to  suspend  the  prog 
ress  of  her  disease,  and  again  her  father,  brothers,  and 
friends  were  deluded  ;  all  but  the  mother  and  the  suf 
ferer.  She  looked,  with  prophetic  eye,  calmly  to  the  end. 
There  was  nothing  to  disturb  her.  That  kingdom  that 
cometh  "  without  observation  "  was  within  her  ;  and  she 
was  only  about  to  change  its  external  circumstances, 
about  to  put  off  the  harness  of  life  in  which  she  had  been 
so  patient  and  obedient.  To  the  last  she  manifested  her 
love  of  books.  A  trunk  filled  with  them  had  not  been 
unpacked.  She  requested  her  mother  to  open  it  at  her 
bedside  ;  and  as  each  book  was  given  to  her,  she  turned 
over  the  leaves,  kissed  it,  and  desired  to  have  it  placed 
on  a  table  at  the  foot  of  her  bed.  There  they  remained 
to  the  last,  her  eye  often  fondly  resting  on  them. 

She  expressed  a  strong  desire  to  see  Mr.  Kent  once 
more,  and  a  fear  that  though  he  had  been  summoned,  he 
might  not  arrive  in  time.  He  came,  however,  to  receive 
the  last  expressions  of  her  gratitude,  and  to  hear  his 
own  name  the  last  pronounced  by  her  lips. 

The  "  Fear  of  Madness "  was  written  by  her  while 
confined  to  her  bed,  and  was  the  last  piece  she  ever 
wrote.  It  constitutes  a  part  of  the  history  of  her  dis 
ease,  and  will,  for  this  reason  alone,  if  no  other,  be  read 
with  interest. 

That  the  records  of  the  last  scenes  of  Lucretia  David 
son's  life  are  scanty,  is  not  surprising.  The  materials 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON.      265 

for  this  memoir,  it  must  be  remembered,  were  furnished 
by  her  mother.  A  victim  stretched  on  the  rack  cannot 
keep  records.  She  says,  in  general  terms,  "  Lucretia 
frequently  spoke  to  me  of  her  approaching  dissolution 
with  perfect  calmness,  and  as  an  event  that  must  soon 
take  place.  In  a  conversation  with  Mr.  Townsend,  held 
at  intervals,  as  her  strength  would  permit,  she  expressed 
the  sentiments  she  expressed  to  me  before  she  grew  so 
weak.  She  declared  her  firm  faith  in  the  Christian  re 
ligion,  her  dependence  on  the  divine  promises,  which  she 
said  had  consoled  and  sustained  her  during  her  illness. 
She  said  her  hopes  of  salvation  were  grounded  on  the 
merits  of  her  Saviour,  and  that  death,  which  had  once 
looked  so  dreadful  to  her,  was  now  divested  of  all  its 
terrors." 

Welcome,  indeed,  should  that  messenger  have  been 
that  opened  the  gates  of  knowledge  and  blissful  immor 
tality  to  such  a  spirit ! 

During  Miss  Davidson's,  residence  in  Albany,  which 
was  less  than  three  months,  she  wrote  several  miscel 
laneous  pieces,  and  began  a  long  poem,  divided  into 
cantos,  and  entitled  "  Maritorne,  or  the  Pirate  of  Mex 
ico."  This  she  deemed  better  than  anything  she  had 
previously  produced.  The  amount  of  her  compositions, 
considering  the  shortness  and  multifarious  occupations 
of  a  life  of  less  than  seventeen  years,  is  surprising. 

We  copy  the  subjoined  paragraph  from  the  biograph 
ical  sketch  prefixed  to  "Amir  Khan."  "Her  poetical 
writings,  which  have  been  collected,  amount  in  all  to  two 
hundred  and  seventy-eight  pieces,  of  various  lengths. 
When  it  is  considered  that  there  are  among  these  at 


266      BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA   MARIA   DAVIDSON. 

least  five  regular  poems,  of  several  cantos  each,  some 
estimate  may  be  formed  of  her  poetical  labors.  Besides 
these  were  twenty-four  school  exercises,  three  unfinished 
romances,  a  complete  tragedy,  written  at  thirteen  years 
of  age,  and  about  forty  letters,  in  a  few  months,  to  her 
mother  alone."  This  statement  does  not  comprise  the 
large  proportion  (at  least  one  third  of  the  whole)  which 
she  destroyed. 

The  genius  of  Lucretia  Davidson  has  had  the  meed 
of  far  more  authoritative  praise  than  ours.  The  follow 
ing  tribute  is  from  the  "  London  'Quarterly  Review,"  a 
source  whence  praise  of  American  productions  is  as  rare 
as  springs  in  the  desert.  The  notice  is  by  Mr.  Southey, 
and  is  written  with  the  earnest  feeling  that  characterizes 
that  author,  as  generous  as  he  is  discriminating.  "  In 
these  poems,"  (  "  Amir  Khan,"  etc.)  "  there  is  enough  of 
originality,  enough  of  aspiration,  enough  of  conscious 
energy,  enough  of  growing  power,  to  warrant  any  ex 
pectations,  however  sanguine,  which  the  patrons,  and  the 
friends,  and  parents  of  the  deceased  could  have  formed." 

But,  prodigious  as  the  genius  of  this  young  creature 
was,  still  marvelous  after  all  the  abatements  that  may  be 
made  for  precociousness  and  morbid  development,  there 
is  something  yet  more  captivating  in  her  moral  loveli 
ness.  Her  modesty  was  not  the  infusion  of  another 
mind,  not  the  result  of  cultivation,  not  the  effect  of  good 
taste  ;  nor  was  it  a  veil  cautiously  assumed  and  grace 
fully  worn  ;  but  an  innate  quality,  that  made  her  shrink 
from  incense,  even  though  the  censer  were  sanctified  by 
love.  Her  mind  was  like  the  exquisite  mirror,  that  can 
not  be  stained  by  human  breath. 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA  MARIA   DAVIDSON      267 

Few  may  have  been  gifted  with  her  genius,  but  all  can 
imitate  her  virtues.  There  is  a  universality  in  the  holy 
sense  of  duty  that  regulated  her  life.  Few  young  ladies 
will  be  called  on  to  renounce  the  Muses  for  domestic  du 
ties  ;  but  many  may  imitate  Lucretia  Davidson's  meek 
self-sacrifice,  by  relinquishing  some  favorite  pursuit,  some 
darling  object,  for  the  sake  of  an  humble  and  unpraised 
duty  ;  and,  if  few  can  attain  her  excellence,  all  may  imi 
tate  her  in  gentleness,  humility,  industry,  and  fidelity  to 
her  domestic  affections.  We  may  apply  to  her  the  beau 
tiful  lines  in  which  she  describes  one  of  those 

"  forms,  that,  wove  in  Fancy's  loom, 

Float  in  light  visions  round  the  poet's  head." 

"  She  was  a  being  formed  to  love  and  bless, 
With  lavish  Nature's  richest  loveliness  ; 
Such  I  have  often  seen  in  Fancy's  eye, 
Beings  too  bright  for  dull  mortality. 
I've  seen  them  in  the  visions  of  the  night, 
I've  faintly  seen  them  when  enough  of  light 
And  dim  distinctness  gave  them  to  my  gaze, 
As  forms  of  other  worlds  or  brighter  days." 

This  memoir  may  be  fitly  concluded  by  the  following 
"Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  my  Sister,"  by  Margaret 
Davidson,  who  was  but  two  years  old  at  the  time  of 
Lucretia's  death,  and  whom  she  often  mentions  with 
peculiar  fondness.  The  lines  were  written  at  the  age  of 
eleven.  May  we  be  allowed  to  say,  that  the  mantle  of 
the  elder  sister  has  fallen  on  the  younger,  and  that  she 
seems  to  be  a  second  impersonation  of  her  spirit  ? 

"  Though  thy  freshness  and  beauty  are  laid  in  the  tomb, 
Like  the  floweret  which  drops  in  its  verdure  and  bloom  ; 


268       BIOGRAPHY  OF  LUCRETIA    MARIA    DAVIDSON. 

Though  the  halls  of  thy  childhood  now  mourn  thee  in  vain, 
And  thy  strains  shall  ne'er  waken  their  echoes  again,  — 
Still  o'er  the  fond  memory  they  silently  glide, 
Still,  still  thou  art  ours,  and  America's  pride. 
Sing  on,  thou  pure  seraph,  with  harmony  crowned, 

And  pour  the  full  tide  of  thy  music  along ; 
O'er  the  broad  arch  of  heaven  the  sweet  note  shall  resound, 

And  a  bright  choir  of  angels  shall  echo  the  song. 
The  pure  elevation  which  beamed  from  thine  eye, 
As  it  turned  to  its  home  in  yon  fair  azure  sky, 
Told  of  something  unearthly  ;  it  shone  with  the  light 
Of  pure  inspiration  and  holy  delight. 
Round  the  rose  that  is  withered  a  fragrance  remains  ; 
O'er  beauty  in  ruins  the  mind  proudly  reigns. 
Thy  lyre  has  resounded  o'er  ocean's  broad  wave, 
And  the  tear  of  deep  anguish  been  shed  o'er  thy  grave ; 
But  thy  spirit  has  mounted  to  mansions  on  high, 
To  the  throne  of  its  God,  where  it  never  can  die." 


NOTES    TO   AMIR    KHAiN. 


1  Beneath  calm  Cashmere's  lovely  vale,  &c.     "  Cashmere,  called  the  happy 
valley,  the  garden  in  perpetual  spring,  and  the  Paradise  of  India." 

2  The  bulbul,  -with  his  lay  of  love,  &c.     "  The  Bulbul,  or  Nightingale." 

3  The  gulnare  blushed  a  deeper  hue,  &c.     "  Gulnare,  or  Rose." 

4  The  lofty  plane-tree's  haughty  brow,  &c.     "  The  Plane-tree,  that  species 
termed  Platamts  orientalis,  is  commonly  cultivated  in  Cashmere,  where  it 
is  said  to  arrive  at  a  greater  perfection  than  in  any  other  country,     This 
tree,  which  in  most  parts  of  Asia  is  called  the  Chinur,  grows  to  the  size  of 
an  oak,  and  has  a  taper,  straight  trunk,  with  a  silver-colored  bark,  and  its 
leaf,  not  unlike  an  expanded  hand,  is  of  a  pale  green.     When  in  full  foliage 
it  has  a  grand  and  beautiful  appearance,  and  in  hot  weather  affords  a  re 
freshing  shade-"  —  Foster. 

6  And  wide  the  plantain's  arms  were  spread,  &c.  "  Plantain-trees  are  sup 
posed  to  prevent  the  plague  from  visiting  places  where  they  are  found  in 
abundance."  — Middletotfs  Geography. 

6  Knelt  the  once  haughty  Subahdar,  &c.     "  Subahdar,  or  Governor." 

7  Since  Amir  Khan  first  biessed  the  hour,  &c.     "  To  the  east  of  this  de 
lightful  spot  is  a  fortified  palace,  erected  by  Amir  Khan,  a  Persian,  who 
was  once  Governor  of  Cashmere.     He  used  to  pass  much  of  his  time  in 
this  residence,  which  was  curiously  adapted  to  every  species  of  Asiatic 
luxury."     See  Encyclopedia,  vol.  v.  part  2. 

8  Through  the  long  walks  of  tzinnar-trees,  &c.      "  Their  walks  are  cu 
riously  laid  out,  and  set  on  both  sides  with  tzinnar-trees,  a  species  of  poplar 
unknown  in  Europe.     It  grows  to  the  height  of  a  pine,  and  bears  a  fruit 
resembling  the  chestnut,  and  it  has  broad  leaves  like  those  of  the  vine."  - 
Middleton's  Geography. 

9  As  it  glides  o'er  the  wave  of  the  WulleSs  stream,  &c.     "  A  beautiful  river 
passes  through  Cashmere,  called  the  Duller,  or  Wvlltr.    There  is  an  outlet, 


270  NOTES    TO  AMIR  KHAN 

where  it  runs  with  greater  rapidity  and  force  than  elsewhere,  between  two 
steep  mountains,  whence  proceeding,  after  a  long  course,  it  joins  with  the 
Chelum." 

10  And  like  a  star  on   MahmoucTs  wave,  &c.      <:  It  appears  like  a  lake 
covered  with  rocks  and  mountains.     Stones,  when  thrown  in,  make  a  sur 
prising  noise,  and  the  river  itself  is  deemed  unfathomable."  —  Middleton't 
Geography. 

11  Proud  Hirney  Purvit  rears  his  head,  &c.       "  There  is  an  oval  lake, 
which  joins  the  Chelum  towards  the  east.     The    Yttcht  Siiliman  and  Hir 
ney  Purvit  form  the  two  sides  of  what  may  be  called  a  grand  portal  to  the 
lake.     They  are  hills  ;  one  of  which  is  sacred  to  the  great  Solyman." 


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